The story of an over-water flight with an unexpected ending

The first four decades of the 20th century witnessed exponential growth in aviation, both civilian and military. Following the Wright brothers' breakthrough flights in 1903 (eat your heart out, Gustav Whitehead) aeronautical inventions were piled one upon the other in a virtual flood of flying machines; some of them flew quite well but many of them never got off the ground.

The pilots who flew these aircraft played leading roles in the development of manned flight; without people who were willing to explore the limits of altitude, distance, speed, duration etc., aviation would have died on the vine. These pilots were record-setters and tested new aircraft (Charles Lindbergh, Wiley Post, Amelia Earhart, Chuck Yeager et al come to mind) but most amateur pilots flew just for fun…and some of them made aviation history in the process. Douglas Corrigan was a  pilot who fit comfortably into the latter category.
 

Douglas G. Corrigan
 

Kinder Berlin und Onkel Wachelflugel – How one man's dedication brightened children's lives in post-war Berlin

 
At the end of a war the spoils belong to the victor. In the case of World War Two in Europe the spoils (read Germany) were shared in 1945 among four victors…the United States, the United Kingdom, France and Russia. Berlin (white circle on the map), was located 100 miles inside Soviet-controlled eastern Germany and was further divided into four occupation zones; the U.S., Great Britain and France controlled western portions of the city and the Soviets ruled the eastern sector.
 
 
The Problem and the Solution

True to his obstreperous personality Russian Premier Joseph Stalin intended to place all of Germany under Soviet control. He planned to undermine the British position and expected the United States would withdraw within a year or two, thereby opening the floodgates for communism in the entire state of Germany.

In June 1948 the Russians made a huge mistake. As the result of a dispute over German currency, the Reds blockaded all surface transportation into east Berlin, cut off the electricity and stopped supplying food to civilians in the non-Soviet sectors of the city. Stalin apparently failed to consider how quickly and positively the United States would respond…under no circumstances would we allow German citizens to starve.

Fortunately, three air corridors that had been established several years earlier were not affected by the blockade, so the western allies (led by the U.S.) stepped up and created the "Berlin Airlift." Inbound flights would be routed via the southeast- and northeast-bound corridors and all outbound traffic would use the west-bound corridor.
 The U.S. "home base" for the operation was Rhein-Main Air Base.
 
 
 
 
Douglas C-47 Skytrain



The Airplanes

The minimum daily supplies for Berlin's two million citizens was estimated at 1,534 tons of food plus 3,475 tons of coal and liquid fuels. An aging fleet of Douglas C-47 Skytrains  was available, but transporting that much cargo with C-47s would require 1,000 flights every day...an impossible task.








Douglas C-54 Skymaster

A larger airplane was a necessity and the Douglas C-54 Skymaster was the aircraft of choice. Not only could the Skymaster carry three times the payload of a C-47, it could be unloaded quickly because of its level stance on the ground (the record was set by a 12-man crew that removed ten tons of bagged coal from a C-54 in a little less than six minutes).

 







In no uncertain terms the commanding officer of the U.S. Air Force in Europe issued an order to all units that operated C-54s "...dispatch all available airplanes to Berlin..." and Skymasters from all over the world headed for Germany. When the airlift came to an end a year later, a total of 225 C-54s had participated in the operation.

The Airport

 
Tempelhof Airport c.1947
Located in the center of Berlin, Tempelhof Airport was the terminal facility for the airlift. It featured a unique circular layout with paved ramps for aircraft parking and passenger movement. The grass runways could not handle heavily loaded aircraft so a pierced-steel plank runway was installed but it crumbled under the weight of the 73,000-pound C-54s. Fear not, U.S. Army engineers came to the rescue…they built two 6,000-foot paved runways between July and October 1948 to accommodate airlift requirements.

Air traffic control at Tempelhof was extremely busy with aircraft landing and taking off every three or four minutes; the accident potential was reduced significantly by applying instrument flight rules to maintain safe separation. The pilots had only one opportunity to complete a landing; if they missed an approach they were required to return to their home base, where the flight would be re-inserted into the traffic flow.

Onkel Wachelflugel

1st Lt. Gail Halvorsen was one of many C-54 pilots who were ordered to Rhein-Main Air Base in West Berlin. He arrived on 10 July 1948 and was soon flying a schedule of two, sometimes three round trips to Berlin every day. Timing on the ground at Tempelhof was so critical that aircrews were not permitted to leave their airplanes...turnaround time was just thirty minutes.

 A week later one of his trips was cancelled, providing an opportunity for Halvorsen to hitch a ride to Tempelhof and get a look at the operation first-hand. German citizens (mostly children)were often gathered on the piles of rubble from war-time bombing to watch the airplanes on final approach.

 
 
 

As he walked around the airport grounds Halvorsen noticed a group of children behind a fence at the end of the runway. He chatted with the children as best he could...he spoke little German, the kids spoke even less English.

 
Lt. Gail Halvorsen with German children
 
As a good will gesture Halvorsen gave the young Germans his last two sticks of chewing gum and promised he would drop more from his airplane when he returned the next day. "How will we know which airplane is yours?" one of the children asked. Gail replied that he would wiggle the wings of his airplane.

When he got back to Rhein-Main Halverson bought a sack of candy and worked out a way to drop it safely (a gum ball dropped from an airplane at 110 miles per hour was an injury looking for a place to happen). Using handkerchiefs and twine he made parachutes that would let the candy packets descend slowly.
 


The Halvorsen parachute factory

 

The crowd of youngsters was larger the next day and they recognized Halverson's C-54 when he rocked the wings. The parachutes worked as advertised and before long other airlift crews were following Halverson's example. When news of this heartwarming project reached the United States, children all over the country sent their own candy to help the German kids who had none. The Confectioners Association of America donated large amounts of sweetstuffs to Halvorsen's project and American school children cooperated in attaching the candies to parachutes.
 


A C-54 with a gaggle of candy chutes in its wake

When the airlift ended in September 1949, 25 C-54 crews had participated in the candy project; they dropped an astounding 46,000 pounds of chocolate, chewing gum and candy. Gail Halvorsen and his crew alone delivered 850 pounds of candy to German youngsters.
 

 The aircrews that took part in this operation became known collectively as "The Candy Bombers" but Gail Halvorson will go down in history as the only pilot in the Berlin Airlift who wiggled his wings; the German children nicknamed him "Onkel Wachelflugel"—Uncle Wiggly Wings.
 


Colonel Gail Halvorsen, 1983


The Russians surrender to the Berlin Airlift



A U.S. Navy C-54 crew celebrates
 

When it became obvious that the airlift had overcome the blockade, the Soviets gave in and lifted the restrictions one minute after midnight on 12 May 1949. Flights continued to build up a comfortable surplus and by the end of July enough supplies had been stockpiled to guarantee ample time to restart the airlift if that became necessary. The last flight in the Berlin Airlift arrived at Tempelhof on 30 September 1949.

 
Was the Berlin Airlift a success? Judge for yourself. In the airlift's 15-month life span the USAF and the RAF (the major participants) made 278,228 flights to Berlin, flew 92 million miles and delivered  2,325,510 tons of food and fuel…including 23 tons of candy for the children of Berlin.

So much for your blockade, Mr. Stalin.















 

Celestial Nose Art - Part One

Ever since armed forces took to the sky military pilots have decorated their aircraft with painted slogans, pictures, names and countless other symbols. The original purpose was to help identity friendly units in combat (WWI German ace Manfred von Richthofen painted his airplanes bright red, hence the sobriquet “Red Baron”) but over the years this practice developed into an art form that is sometimes considered folk art and may be compared to graffiti. With respect to military aircraft it is known as “nose art.” 

Eleven organizations, 14 different airplanes and 20 years of military aviation.

Among my good friends in the general aviation community is a gentleman named Paul Berge. He served in­­ the U.S. Army during the Vietnam war, graduated from the University of California at Santa Cruz and eventually settled in Des Moines, Iowa where he worked as an Air Traffic Controller for 17 years (Paul has lived in the Hawkeye State long enough to call it "Ioway" with no fear of retribution from the natives).

Paul loves flying—especially in the 1946 Aeronca 7AC he recovered and restored—and he spends a lot of time preaching the gospel of general aviation from the bully pulpits of radio, TV and print media. Paul's interest in aviation extends to Uncle Sam's aircraft and he asked me to share my thoughts about the airplanes I flew…what follows is my response to his request.

 

Thule Air Base - at the top of the world...almost

Swedish cartographer Olaus Magnus was an artist with a fertile mind. In 1539 AD he produced a map of the world as he knew it, illustrated with images of sailing ships, ocean currents and various imaginary sea creatures.
 
 
The land mass ("Islandia") in the northwest corner of the Magnus map may have been today's Greenland, the largest island in the world. If you wonder why an island with extreme winter weather most of the  year is known as "green land," look no farther than the real-estate sales tactics of Erid the Red, a Norseman who was exiled from Iceland for manslaughter in 980 AD; he sailed west with his family and their servants, found inhabitable property on the island's east coast and settled there. Eric called his new home "Greenland" with hopes that a pleasant name would attract more settlers (a precursor of the Florida land boom in the 1920s?).
 

The Blimp - Stories of an aerial vehicle whose onomatopoetic name is at least 100 years old.





How does one launch a blimp? The answer is "slowly"…blimps do nothing rapidly. I became aware of that years ago when The Ohio State University Airport was visited on occasion by the Goodyear blimps that covered major sports events in the Columbus area. When the flight schedule permitted, the OSU Department of Aviation folks were welcomed aboard for a low-altitude, low-airspeed tour of the city. That blimp ride was a first-time experience for me and given my zero knowledge of airship operations I wondered how this bagful of helium would get off the ground.
 
 
The neutrally bouyant blimp was resting lightly on its single wheel and anchored, so to speak, by the ground crew holding the mooring lines attached to the nose. There was a hand rail running completely around the bottom of the gondola and when the pilot was ready the launch crew lifted the blimp to arms' length then pulled it down briskly.

The wheel strut compressed when it contacted the ground and the gas bag sagged a bit around the gondola, resulting in an upward rebound (Newton's third law of motion at work—equal and opposite reaction) whereupon the pilot opened the throttles and the blimp climbed away…an AVTO (Almost Vertical Takeoff). The entire procedure took place in graceful, ponderous slow motion.

 

Between a rock and a hard place: Too slow to take off, too fast to stop.



Years ago, when the Federal Aviation Administration was cranking out training films on nearly every conceivable aviation subject, there was a frequent flow of movies between my aviation classrooms at The Ohio State University and the lending facility in Washington, DC. Most of these films were good teaching aids and some were not worth the cost of shipping them back and forth.   

One of the best FAA movies featured a fictional commercial photographer/pilot who embarked from a sea-level airport in his brand new A-36 Bonanza on an assignment to cover the American west.
 
Typical Beech A-36 Bonanza
  
That was a rather daunting project to say the least…the American west is a huge area. The situation wasn’t helped at all by the pilot's false expectation that "this baby can take me anywhere I need to go." As he ventured farther west into higher terrain he discovered his non-supercharged Bonanza was losing performance on takeoff and climb and finally, after a frightening episode at a short grass strip high in the Colorado mountains, he understood the meaning of density altitude…which of course was the subject of that FAA film.