CLINTON E. ATHERTON (C-47)

I am one of the few members of the Warbirds that was born in Oregon, at a place called Tidewater, near Waldport. I also graduated from High School in Roseburg, in 1937. By 1940 the draft numbers of my friends and I were getting pretty low. So, after much debating, we decided to go into Medford and sign up for the Army Air Corps.

My initial flight orders were to the 333rd School Squadron at Stockton Field, California, where they were flying AT6's, but newcomers like myself worked on the flight line half a day, maintaining the aircraft, and had recruit training other half. After about a month of this I was transferred to Mather Field in Sacramento, California.

At Mather I had the same job, crewing an AT6, but no more recruit training. The field itself was a mile square dirt field, but the parking area was being paved. There we learned of the Sgt.Pilot program, so about eight of us put in applications to fly. We were sent over to nearby McClellan for a written test, a flight physical, and an eye exam. I passed them all.

From there I was sent to Armament School, at Lowery Field in Denver, Colorado. I was about a week away from completing that course when I got orders to flying school, at King City, California. There they were flying Ryan PT-21's and PT-22's. They were going to hold me over to the next class but my instructor said he could catch me up on my flying if some one would catch me up on ground school. It happened that we had three Lieutenants going through the training in grade. One of them said he would give me some private instruction to bring me up to date. So whenever there was any kind of formation or extra duty my instructor would page me over the PA system to report to the class room. We both got out of a lot extra work that way.

One weekend a few of my class mates got a week-end pass and boarded the train for San Francisco. When they got there Sundav morning they were met by the MP's and put on the next train back. It was December 7th, 1941.

After that everything changed, Some of the Sgts were put to giving the Cadets close order drill, instruction in handling a rifle and the way to perform guard duty. The Non-coms were the Sgts and Cpls of the guard and the Cadets were the Pvts of the guard, along with some of us enlisted personnel who were still just Pvts. Since my instructor had a plane reserved for me every day, so I could catch up, I was the first one to get in my 60 hours.

From King City we went to Moffet Field, California, for Basic, in BT-13's (Vultee Vibrator). In that training I had two incidents, and both times my instructor was with me. In the first we were out over San Francisco Bay when the engine cut out. By working the wobble pump we got it running again but that was the only way we could keep it running, and even then it was cutting in and out. My instructor said "You've got your choice, bail out or stay with me. I'm going to try to nurse this thing back to the field". I looked down and saw nothing but water so I stayed. He flew the plane and I worked the wobble pump and we limped back to the field.

In the second we were up at night assigned to upper zone 4, the last plane to be called in when flying was over. About midnight the tower called the all the lower zones in and finally called upper 4. When we were outbound from the field, directly over the final approach, my instructor said, "Here let me have it." He flipped the plane over on it's back and did a "split-S" right onto final, all the while yelling on the radio, "Look out, here comes Texas". We landed ahead of the other three planes, all of which were in the traffic pattern. I never heard if he got into trouble or not.

From there half of our class were sent to single engine training at Luke while the rest of us were sent to Mather for twin engine training. There we flew the Curtis AT-9, an underpowered poor excuse for a trainer. We had one cross country to Reno and could hardly get off the ground at that altitude.

Next our class was sent to Camp Williams, at Camp Douglas, Wisconsin, for C-47 transition. There our planes were DC-3's that had been taken from the airlines. Everyone you got into had the cockpit configured differently, the instruments were placed differently, the throttle quadrant was different and the radios were different. There was one plane in which we couldn't practice single engine procedures. Once you feathered the prop you didn't dare bring it back in. The prop feathered with hydraulic fluid instead of engine oil and unfeathering it would put all that hydraulic fluid into the oil system. One plane was a sleeper and still had sheets and blankets on the bunks.

When we finished at Camp Williams we were scattered out among twenty troop carrier squadrons. I was among those assigned to the 39th Troop Carrier Squadron, 317th Troop Carrier Group, at Bowman Field in Louisville, Kentucky. The pilots were all getting checked out and flying round-robin cross country trips, low level local flying and night flying. The next group of pilots to come in were all 2nd Lts. right out of flying school, with no C-47 transition. The Lts. were put to flying co-pilot with a S/Sgt. as pilot. This didn't go over too well with some of them but it all worked eventually.

One morning the 1st Sgt. came in and woke us all up (we were in a large open bay in a GI barracks), and informed us that Sgts. Peterson and Robinson had crashed during the night. Everyone turned and looked at their bunks and there they both were sound asleep. They had lost one engine and were returning to the field when, on final approach, the other engine quit. They put the plane down, at night, on the 13th green of the golf course.

When we finally got our full complement of people and planes we were transferred to Lawson Field in Fort Benning, Georgia, to drop paratroopers. They got their first five practice jumps from 1,500 ft. then did what they called combat jumps from 500 ft. We took up 16 troopers and dropped them eight at a time. One day I had dropped my first 8 but when the jump-master pulled in the static lines he only had 7. Apparently one of the troopers had inadvertently unhooked his static line from the overhead cable. We were too close to the ground for him to even try to use his emergency chute. That was our only accident at Lawson.

After flying there for quite some time we were sent to Maxton Field, in Laurenburg, North Carolina, to tow gliders. But as soon as we got there S/Sgt. Pat Rawlings and I were sent out to Blythe, California, to fly a hospital ship for Patton's 5th Arrmored Division, which was then on maneuvers in the desert before leaving for North Africa.

Each morning we would go into Base Ops. and get our orders for the day. Usually we went out to some little dirt strip in the desert, picked up a load of accident victims and took them to Beaumont General Hospital in El Paso, TX. They would send a medic and a nurse along and if there was a really bad injury there would be a doctor as well. On the way back we would stop at Phoenix and go to a good restaurant for dinner. By the time we got back to Blythe it would be dark, and none of the strips had lights. We would have to go out across the desert at 500 ft. with our landing lights on, looking for the strip. Usually there would be a jeep or an ambulance waiting for the people and they would turn on their lights. The next morning we would do it all over.

One morning we were headed for Needles, up north of Blythe. On such a short flight we normally stayed about 500 ft above the ground. About half way there we saw row after row of tanks rolling across the desert under us. We were busy watching them when all of a sudden a shadow went across us. When we looked up there was a B-17 towing a target, for gunnery practice, crossing just above us. Needless to say we got out of there fast.

After 30 days of this we returned to Maxton. There we found that the Squadron had received overseas orders and everyone was packing up. The flight crews flew down to Brookley Field, in. Mobile, Alabama, where we found 13 brand new C-47A's waiting for us.

At Brookley we were assigned to crews and crews were given a certain plane, by tail number. My Co-Pilot was S/Sgt. Robinson, Crew Chief Sgt. Hoffman, Radio Operator Cpl. Humpert, and Navigator Lt. Bill Fehr. The plane we were assigned was #41-18668. We were also given all kinds of equipment, leather jackets, GI watches, sextants, navigation kits, and maps. The parachute shop even made us painted Squadron insignia and sewed them on our jackets.

After the planes were all inspected and all our equipment stowed we took off for McClellan Field, in Sacramento, California. There they removed the wing de-icer boots, the prop anti-icing fluid tank and all the rest of the equipment they said we wouldn't need where we were going. They installed eight 100 gallon tanks in wooden cradles in the fuselage and plumbed them with regular galvanized pipe and brass globe valves. They were fixed so the crew chief could just open a valve and refill the main wing tanks. They also issued everyone heavy winter flying suits, shoulder holsters (complete with 45's), life rafts and Mae Wests and all the other equipment we would need, including a bicycle and two tommy guns.

One morning in operations, the Col. asked how come we were all still S/Sgts. About that time everyone was being promoted to Flight Officer (Warrant Officer). He picked up the phone and called Washington and the next day a TWX came in promoting us. There was a mad rush to get new uniforms, bars and hats before we left.

Finally, after a number of misadventures, we were ready for our flight to Hawaii. There was also a Navy R4D, piloted by a Chief, going over at the same time, so we decided we would fly together. He took off first. I took off right behind him, climbed up to 10,000 ft. and set up long range cruise. I called the Chief and asked him his altitude and heading. He was on the same heading and altitude but I couldn't see him, so I boosted the power up a little. After flying for a couple of hours and still unable to see him I boosted up the power a little bit more. Later I boosted the power up even more. When we sighted the islands I called for landing instructions. At the same time the Chief called the tower for taxi instructions.

At Hickam Field they removed four of the cabin tanks, replaced the auto-pilot, pulled a 100-hour inspection, and put about a ton of cargo and mail aboard. We were there for two days then took off for Christmas Island, and the next day for Canton Island. About halfway to Canton Island we saw the wake of a large ship coming towards us. When we got closer we could see it was a large aircraft carrier. We had been briefed never to fly directly over any Navy ships at sea so we turned 45 degrees and went around it. Cpl. Humpert made a routine report of a ship sighting and we thought nothing more about it. When we arrived at Canton. we were informed that no US carriers were in the area. A few days before they had had a big battle to the south and one of the Jap carriers had escaped under the cover of weather. They sent a flight of B-24s out to identify the ship but we never did learn how that came out.

Over the next three days we island-hopped to Fiji and New Caledonia Islands, ending at Archer Field in Brisbane, Australia. There we found that all of our nice new C-47s had been given to the 374th and we were replaced with two C-39's, six C-60's and five DC-3's. The C-60's were Dutch airliners (Lockheed Ventura's) that had been down in that area when the war started and couldn't get back to Holland. They all had Dutch instruments in them. Our Maintenance put strips of green, yellow and red tape on them and as long as they were in the green we were okay. They had ripped all the seats out and were using that space for cargo.

The DC-3's were also former airliners. One had engine trouble at Cloncurry and the crew left it there. A crew was sent up to fix it and when it was finished I was sent up to continue the trip. The day was hot, about 110 in the shade and no shade. We rolled out to the end of the runway and took off and just after lift off, on checking the instruments, I saw the head temperature was 300 degrees. The crew chief saw it about the same time and reached for the throttles. I had been talking to the tower and had the microphone in my hand so I whacked him across the back of the hand. I said that was no place to reduce power. After we got the gear up and squared away in climb we found that the cylinder head temperature gages were in Fahrenheit instead of Centigrade. No one had noticed that before takeoff.

The C-39's were just an early version of the C-47, with smaller engines and a flat-sided fuselage instead of a round one. Two crews, four pilots, and two crew chiefs were sent up to Moresby in one of the C-39s to fly a mail and passenger run to Milne Bay and back twice a day. One crew took it in the morning and the other crew in the afternoon. We lived in a tent just off the end of the strip and at night we would get into our cot, tuck in the mosquito netting, then turn on our flashlight and kill all the mosquitoes inside the net.

We flew out of Archer for several months. At first we had more pilots than we had planes, But we soon got our full 13 and really started flying. One month I had over 180 hours and didn't even get a thank you because several of the other pilots had more than 200 hours.

One of our regular runs was to Darwin. It was usually a three day trip. The first day we would go to Charlieville and Cloncurry and RON at Daly Waters. Next day we would fly into Darwin, and back to again RON at Daly Waters. On the third day we'd go back to Brisbane, logging 24 hours of flying time for the three days.

On one trip I wanted to get back ASAP because we had a big Squadron party coming up. We flew clear to Darwin in one day and figured on flying back the next. When we got to Darwin they had a load for us to take to Drysdale River Mission, way down on the west coast of Australia. We went down and back in one day. The next day they loaded us up with equipment and personnel of the 43rd Bomb Wing. They were moving from Darwin to Port Moresby, New Guinea. We flew clear across northern Australia and the Coral Sea to Port Moresby in one day. The next morning they turned us around and sent us back to Darwin for another load, and the next day back to Moresby. There they said we would have to go back for another load but we said no way. We were already overdue for a 100- hour inspection and had to go back to Brisbane. In the first 8 days of the month we had flown 80 hours.

After a few months in Brisbane the 317th, all four Squadrons, were moved to Port Moresby, New Guinea, and the 374th was moved back to Australia. We just switched places. In Port Moresby most of our missions were dropping supplies and equipment to front line troops, flying air evacuation trips and flying troops into forward areas.

On one trip we were flying into Gusap, a forward mud strip that had two runways, side by side. As I leveled off to land I looked over at the other strip and a Zero was flying almost in formation with me, strafing the parked aircraft on the other strip. I put the plane down hard, pulled the mixture controls off, cut the switches and locked the brakes. Then I turned around and yelled for everyone to bail out and run for it, before I realized that I was all alone. Everyone else had already gone. I beat a hasty retreat, over the bank of a nearby creek.

Luckily no planes were destroyed, but some had several holes in them.
On another occasion we were hauling troops into another forward dirt (mud) strip. When I landed I started braking to turn into the parking area. But I wasn't slowing down! With the brakes locked and the wheels sliding it felt like we were gaining speed. When I looked down at the end of the strip I could see three planes already off into the Kuni grass. One was straight ahead, one off to the right and one off to the left, which left no place for me to go.

I applied full right brake and rudder and full left throttle. The plane came around, on the strip, and when it got to facing the approach end I went to left rudder and full right throttle to stop the turn. Then we were sliding down the strip backwards so I put take off power on both engines, stopped the slide and taxied into the parking area. A bunch of the other pilots were standing under the wing of a plane watching. When I got out they said, "I suppose you're going to claim you did that on purpose". I told them I had but I never could convince anyone.

On missions like this we flew in formation with fighter escort. After an area was fairly secure, we just took off and went with fighters overhead patrolling the area.

When we left Moresby we went up past Nadzab and Lae to our new station at Finschaven. Lae was the last place Amelia Earhart took off from. Our mission remained the same, but we were sending one plane a week to Sydney hauling leave personnel from the bomber and fighter outfits. The first trip down we had two crews on board, one stayed there for the week until the next plane came down. Then the crew bringing the plane down stayed a week and the other crew took the plane back.

At Finschaven we parked our aircraft in revetments that were built for fighters. Because of all the rain they were built high in the middle and sloping down in all directions. To get a C-47 in you had to put one wheel on the top of the rise and spin around on one wheel. That left the plane sitting on a slope with one wing low. One morning "Bull" Bowen and Max Archer took off with a load of tires. Just as they were about to lift off one engine quit. There was a long straight cut in the jungle just off the end of the strip and it had a road running down it. Bowen couldn't get stopped on the runway so he headed down the road. Unfortunately, the rain had washed a gully about 10 ft. deep and 20 ft. wide across the road. He tried to jump over it but didn't have quite enough speed and ended up with the nose of the plane smashed against the far bank.

When the crash crew, the ambulance and a lot of our maintenance personnel got out there, all three of the crew were standing on the bank looking at the wreck. About then someone noticed that Bowen was walking around in his socks. He had been wearing a pair of fleece lined, Australian flying boots. Upon looking in the plane we found both boots still on the rudder pedals and the rudder pedals pushed up under the instrument panel. He didn't have a scratch on him and didn't know he'd lost his boots.

Just a short while later, Maj. Ford, our CO, and Capt. Dunkelburger started to take off and got up about 200 ft. when one engine quit. Ford turned to get out over the ocean so he could gain a little altitude and go around, but the other engine quit. They crashed into the jungle just off the parking area. The crew chief aboard saw they were going down and started running for the rear of the plane. The next thing he knew he was running down the taxiway as fast as he could but his body was going faster than his feet and he fell and rolled in the coral. His only injuries were cuts and bruises from his fall.

Dunkelburger was pretty badly broken up. Maj. Ford was worried about him and was trying to getting him to the hospital. Eventually Dunkelburger was patched up and sent home but Maj. Ford died on the way to the hospital, from internal injuries and bleeding. He didn't even think he was badly hurt.

In the investigation they found that in the sloping revetments, when you drained the sumps, there was still water in the low side of the tanks. They had been parked at the end of the strip. They just ran up their engines in place, got a green light, swung out on the strip and took off. There was just enough gas in the system to get them off the ground before the water came through.

Another advantage of hauling food to the front line troops is that sometimes they would overlook (?) a box or two. One day we had a plane come back from Australia and they had two cases of champagne. Another plane came back from the front with a half case of fresh eggs (15 doz.). When I came back I had a 55-lb. box of frozen beef, marked for steaks and roasts. That night we moved two field ranges out of the mess tent into the area in front of the tents, and everyone had steak and eggs with champagne.

Our next move was to Hollandia. There we moved into a new area and had to build it from scratch. I was in a tent with three other pilots. We built a private shower out behind our tent, We sank four coconut logs in the ground, built a frame on top and put a P-47 belly tank on it. Then we dug a ditch to a water line farther back from us. There they were building Gen. MacArthur's new headquarters and had put in this water line from the lake to his headquarters.

When we got the ditch to the water line we were lucky and came right to a "T" in the line. It had a plug in the side so all we had to do was remove the plug and hook up our pipe. (We got the pipe from the Navy for a bottle of gin). We could fill our tank in the morning and by afternoon the water would be so hot we had to mix it with cold to take a shower.

When we moved to Hollandia we had to by-pass Wewak, which was still held by the Japs. In flying back and forth, we either had to go out to sea or fly inland next to the mountains. We were briefed that if we went down flying inland to land in the Sepic river if possible. To the north of the river were Japs and to the south were head-hunters. We were told to find a log or tree and float in the river at night. In the daytime we were to go ashore and hide under the brush along the bank. Then on reaching the mouth of the river we were supposed to float right on out to sea, where a PBY or a PT boat could pick us up.

While at Hollandia we made another paratrooper drop at a small island Northwest of New Guinea. We dropped them from 500 ft. just at daylight, along an old Jap strip. The only problem was the Army Engineers had already moved their equipment onto the strip and started working. The troopers were landing among roadgraders and bulldozers. We had to spend the next few days flying the injured back to hospitals in the rear area.

Finally the invasion of the Philippines started and the 39th Squadron moved to Leyte. But by that time Pat Rawlings and I had our time in and had orders to go home. In 2-1/2 years in the Southwest Pacific (SWPA) I had flown over 2,000 hours. I received a DFC, three Air Medals, the Southwest Pacific Area ribbon with three battle stars and a Presidential Unit Citation.

Pat and I caught a C-54 out of Nadzab to Hawaii and thence on to Hamilton AFB in California. There they gave us train tickets to Santa Anna, California. There I got orders to Minter Field, to fly B-25's for radar training for navigators. Before I even got checked out in the B-25 I was sent, along with 5 other pilots, to Army Air Corps Instrument Pilot Instructor Course (AACIPIC) at Bryan, Texas. Upon completing the course at Bryan we were put on a train back to Minter. When we got there the base had closed. Another C-47 pilot from the SWPA, Capt. Don Hickey, and I were given 11 days to report to a pilot's pool in Memphis, Tennesee. From there we were ordered back to Palm Springs, California, to be instructor

On arriving there we found they had just received a whole bunch of pilots that had been BT-13 instructors throughout the war. When their base closed they were assigned to Palm Springs to get checked out in the C-47. A classmate of mine (42-E) and his wife had rented a house there but with rents so high he rented me his extra bedroom to help cover costs. One day I was driving up the street in his car and heard a siren blowing, so I pulled over. When nothing came by I moved up the street farther and found the streets full of people. You couldn't go anywhere. The war was over!

They started right in letting people out. I went into the orderly room to see where I stood and found that my MOS (Instrument Instructor Pilot) was critical. After much discussion, the 1st Sgt. changed my MOS to Operations Officer, which was in over-supply, and were being let out.

They sent me to Camp Beale, now Beale AFB, in Marysville, California for separation. From there I went back to Oregon with 60 days terminal leave. This was in the fall of 1945. 1 met my wife, in Canyonville, and we were married in 1948. Our first son was born in the old Mercy Hospital in Roseburg.

I was employed as Postmaster of Canyonville when I got orders recalling me into the 5th AF for the Korean conflict. Despite my pilot qualifications the AF had me run a post office in Korea. I did that for a year before I could get back to duty involving flying.

Then I got heavily into the maintenance side of operations. I was Maintenance Officer for Headquarters 4th AF, Mobile Maintenance Officer for a MATS Squadron in Spain and the Maintenance Member of EASTAF Headquarters. In those roles I traveled all around the world, solving maintenence crises. I was hardly ever home. But, that's another story.

In 1968 I retired, with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel USAF.

 

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RUSSELL E. "RUSTY" DEGROAT (C-46)

BRIEF BIO:

Rusty DeGroat was born on February 8, 1920 in Sussex, New Jersey. On November 6, 1940, at Newark, New Jersey, he enlisted in U.S. Cavalry. From that date until March 1942 he was a Motorcycle Scout, when he became a flight cadet. He took Primary Flight Training at Uvalde, Texas (06/42-0942), Basic at Sherman, Texas (09/42-11/42), and Advanced at Waco, Texas (11/52-02/43). He later underwent C-47 and C-46 training with Eastern and Western Airlines in Atlanta, Georgia and Salt Lake City, Utah (03/43-09/43). His major war-time operations were in the China-India-Burma Theatre, based in Chabua and Misamari, India. Over the period November 1943 to December 1944. He flew 132 combat missions, and was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and three Air Medals.

On February 13, 1943, in Waco, Texas, just after completing Advanced Flight Training, Rusty married Ruth McGhee. They have a son Alan. Following more than two more decades of flying in the USAF he retired from active duty, on May 30, 1967, at the Pentagon in Washington DC, with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel.

HIS STORY:

In November 1943 I "bought" (for the Army Air Corps) a new twin-engine C-46 transport plane at the Curtiss-Wright factory in Buffalo, NY Together with my air crew we flew it via Marni, Brazil, Ascension Island, across central Africa, to Karachi and Chabua in northeastern India. Chabua was one of the seven Air Transport Command bases flying the Hump.

The 24th of December, navigator Sal Cremo, took me to a tailor shop in the nearby village of Dibrugarh to have my escape and evasion flags sewn on my A-2 flight jacket. The barefoot Hindu tailor, wrapped in white cotton muslin, squatting in front of his woven bamboo shop smiled through red, Betel-nut stained teeth, happy for the job. He quickly applied the red, white, and blue Chinese escape flag on the back and the CBI patch on the left shoulder. Inside left, he sewed the silk American flag and on the right the Indian flag with an escape message in Hindu below the Union Jack and the Peacock.

I had another silk American flag, about ten by fifteen inches, in my pocket escape kit. Below the forty-eight star flag was the escape message:

Dear friend:
I am and Allied fighter. I do not come here to do any harm to you who are my friends. I only want to do harm to the Japanese and chase them away from this country as quickly as possible. If you will assist me, my Government will sufficiently reward you when the Japanese are driven away.

It was also in French, Tamal, Sumatra, Thai, North, East and West Shan, Jwai, Chinese, (Haka) (Chin), Kachin, Malay, Bengali, Annamite, Burmese and Karen.

After the tailor declared, `Finished, sahib," I tried on the jacket and spread it wide open displaying the flags inside. "Rusty, you look like the peacock on the flag of India," Sal said.

"I'm all set to fly the Hump. Let's go! I replied.

Christmas Eve 1943, 1 made my first Hump flight, from Chabua, to Kunming, China. On our return, the big shot of whiskey dished out by the flight surgeon relaxed me before going to bed. I dreamed pleasant dreams of a Chinese Santa and his reindeer flying alongside our aircraft waving and cheering us on.

Flying the Hump meant flying over the highest, wickedest mountain range in the world -- the legendary, mysterious Himalayas. It was the aerial Burma Road providing the only link between the outside world and China. It was often referred to as the Great Aluminum Trail because of the many planes that crashed and dotted the mountains and the jungles.

"Bring me men to match my weather." was the Hump motto. That meant accepting the losses to match the risk. The main Hump consisted of knife-like 20,000-foot plus peaks infested with sudden spring thunderstorms, violent turbulence, savage air currents, severe icing, sleet and hail. Incredible amounts of rain and muggy, humid weather accompanied the monsoon season from May to late October. Good weather predominated the dry season in India from November until March with crystal-clear, blue skies, and unlimited visibility, Unfortunately, when the weather was good in India, it was usually terrible in China.

Here is the most savage weather bastion on this planet, stimulated by the polar vortex, fed by wet and dry monsoons and playground of the fickle jet stream. Hump routes extended to many remote airfields beyond the usual loading terminals, encompassed not only thousands of square miles of China, Burma and India but were bordered by a half dozen other kingdoms, countries and the South China Sea. Many aircraft were blown off course in the violent weather, while some were driven off their planned route or shot down by Japanese fighters. Still others were decoyed by false radio signals from the enemy which led them into higher peaks or on into remote Tibet or into enemy held airfields. Many ran out of fuel.

This arena of elements, terrain and Japanese invaders was challenged by underpowered, unarmed and unseasoned transports that were flown on instruments much of the time. These aircraft were manned by a high percentage of low-time crews, pressed in ahead of their maturity but not without the necessity, purpose and courage. I had a total of 375 hours and 17 minutes of flight time. It was here that many lost their individual battles for life and this is where they came to their final resting places known only to God Himself. The combination of weather and terrain at the ends of the earth, peopled with strange and dangerous tribes, including the Japanese, made the Hump as dangerous a spot as any in the world.

The following night, when I reported to Operations for my second flight, a private approached me and introduced himself, "Lieutenant DeGroat, I'm Private Charlie Johnson, your pilot on this flight. Yeah I know, you're wondering what the devil is going on, with a private as your aircraft commander. The `Old Man' busted me from staff sergeant yesterday, but he didn't ground me. This is my sixty-fourth mission. I have the weather and maps. How about a bite to eat before we go?"

"Sounds good to me," I said glancing at the dark spots on the sleeves of his faded khaki shirt where staff sergeant strips had recently been. Johnson was one of the staff sergeant pilots in the Air Transport Command doing an exceptional job and loving every minute of it.

Over a cup of strong stale coffee we discussed our flight plan and the weather, mixing in where we were from and recapping our life histories. That didn't take long since we were so young and hadn't done much. Next came families and home followed by what we were going to do when this man's war was over. This was a typical pattern we followed on most flights.

After the amenities, we grabbed our bulky parachute bags, loaded with winter flying gear, and headed for the airplane. "Let's go to Kunming, lieutenant," Charlie said. "It all adds up to the magical six hundred and fifty hours for rotation back to the States.

"Okay, Chabua Tower, give us the nod and we'll leave the sod," chanted Charlie. "Roger," Chabua Tower chanted back, "the man behind the glass says boot it in the ass."

Wearing baseball caps or sheepskin-lined helmets with oxygen masks clipped on we hauled anything from ammunition to mules. Our usual load was twenty-three, fifty-five-gallon drums of aviation gas for General Chennaults' Flying Tigers and the 14th Air Force. Without fail, at fourteen thousand feet, the steel drums would start popping like a series of shots as they adjusted to altitude. At times, we also carried aircraft engines and parts, demolition bombs, grenades, mortars, 105-rnillimeter howitzers and shell, rifles, jeeps, American military personnel and Chinese soldiers.

I made three night flights across the Hump before I even saw it. Jagged, awe-inspiring peaks towered high above in magnificent snow-clad glory and dense, impenetrable jungles lay below One mountain pass about ten miles wide, north of Fort Hertz, Burma, nestled among rock shards at 22,000 feet. That was our maximum ceiling when fully loaded. We hit the pass by flying time and distance then immediately turned southeast to China.

We dared not think of the consequences if the forecast winds were way their mark and the turn was made too soon or too late in the pass. At times like this, we prayed we were in good with the Lord. It was a grimly monotonous challenge day after day-night after night.

Charlie couldn't resist the favorite initiation ritual in checking out a "green" co-pilot on his second Hump flight in heavy instrument weather. I was sure that we were over China when he shouted, "Lieutenant, check the time and give me thirty seconds!"

At thirty seconds he made a sharp right turn. "Give me twenty seconds!" he yelled as he made another sharp turn to the right, rolling out straight ahead. He waited a full minute before he casually remarked, "Some of these mountain peaks are really hell to get around."

FLIGHT TO IMPRAL

In June 1944 when the British 14th Army was surrounded by the Japanese in Burma's Imphal Valley our C-46's from Misamari, India were diverted to Chittagong, India to provide logistical support. We carried Gurkha troops, guns, ammunition, gasoline, food and other supplies in to the beleaguered army.The clear, blue sky day was Zero weather in Hump language. It was the kind of day the Japanese liked to prowl the skies looking for targets of opportunity like our unarmed transports.

Turning over Silchar, India we had only thirty minutes before landing at Imphal Valley's north field.

"I'll start a slow letdown to the Imphal ridge and cross it as low as possible," I called to Hans Knopp, my co-pilot. "Sergeant Manning, go back and keep a sharp eye out for Japs. They got one of our birds along here yesterday."

"Okay, lieutenant. I'll sing out if I spot anything," assured the big crew chief as he headed back to the navigator's plastic bubble. "I'll check the tie-downs on the gas drums and then scan the sky."

"I'll help him check," volunteered Sergeant Riley, "then I'll come back and look with you."

I can only monitor the radio since we have to maintain absolute radio silence on the way in. "Thanks, men."

The rolling, deep green carpet of the jungle changed to distinct bamboo clumps and tropical trees when I leveled off just above their canopies. "We have it on the downhill grade now, Hans."

"The Limeys must be in tough shape down there. The Japs overrun two of their airfields and have them completely surrounded. There's only two airfields still open. At that rate they won't have time for their afternoon tea. The Ops officer said our B-24's bombed the two Jap-held fields this morning, knocking them out temporarily. The Zeros will have to fly from Monywa so they can only stay over the valley fifteen or twenty minutes before heading back."

A shout from Manning interrupted us. "Two Boogies at five o'clock high!" Before I could push the throttles full forward and the nose down a stream of tracers shot across our right wing followed by a Zero. Another stream of tracers raked the right side. Another Zero shot into view, pulled up in a steep left turn, rolled over reversing direction and joined the other fighter for a double-barreled head-on attack.

"Get on the rudders with me, Hans," I cried, "we'll skid the SOB one way then the other. It'll make it harder for them to hit us. What I wouldn't give now for a fifty-caliber machine gun to blast those bastards all the way back to Tokyo. Here they come!"

Violently we sloughed the ungainly transport from side to side flying so low that we were looking up at some of the trees, practically lifting their leaves to peer ahead before rushing on. We were fighting desperately for our lives in a very uneven match.

The sun gleamed off the spinning props as the Japs bore in so close we could see the pilot's black leather-helmeted head and almond eyes intent on putting us permanently out of the war. Tracers streamed from the two fighters as they flashed by showing the hated rising sun under the right wing and side. A surprising, heavy jolt made the ship momentarily shudder, followed by a high-pitched roar from the right engine.

"Damn! The bastards shot our right prop off. The engines running away. Quick! Shut it down Rusty!" shouted Hans.

I flipped the right engine off and shoved the left throttle full forward. It took both of us to keep the ship under control.

Manning shouted, "God damn, there's three more Boogies. We've had it now!" His voice changed from hopelessness to hope, `Wait a minute, they're ours! I see twin booms of two P-38'sbutlcan'tmakeouttheotherone. A Thirty-Eight is locked onto one of `em."

A Zero shot by in front of us doing a half roll, pulling up in a steep turn trying to shake the P-38 off his tail. The `38 matched the Japs every move and fired. Poof! The Zero disappeared in a cloud of white smoke. A ball of red fire arched toward the Jap pilot's Valhalla below. Better him than us, I thought. The P-38 did a victory roll, then turned back, waggled his wings at us and flew away to join his buddies.

Off our left wing the remaining Zero was trying our low level tactic, hopelessly trying to get away from the other P-38 and a British Hurricane fighter. Both ships were jockeying trying to get in the final blow as they disappeared over the horizon in hot pursuit of the hapless Jap.

With a sigh of relief I asked, "Everybody okay? I smell gas. They must have hit our drums but fortunately not with tracers or we wouldn't be here now. Check it out."

After a few minutes Manning reported, "Lieutenant, they shot us up pretty bad. The fuselage looks like a sieve and gas is spewing out of thirty or forty holes in the drums and leaking all over the floor. It's slippery as hell and whatever you do don't strike a match. There's a funny, high-pitched whistling noise coming from all the bullet holes in the skin. Can you see the big jagged hole about two feet long behind the navigator's table? That's where the prop hit when it flew off. We were lucky it only punched a hole and didn't come all the way through. It would have got me for sure and maybe the ship. How's it handling?"

"It's flying good now that we have it trimmed up," I said. "This just wasn't your day Manning or that prop would have got you. I wonder what the natives down there think about a big, shiny, four-bladed steel propeller showing up half buried in the middle of their village? They'll probably make bracelets and a bunch of earrings out of it. We should be only about five minutes out. Let me know when you have the field in sight, Hans."

We breathed easier as we limped along at eight hundred feet over the rolling hills approaching the flat plains of Imphal valley. Rice paddies and small bamboo huts dotted the terrain. Water buffalo worked alongside their masters clad in dirty white loincloths. For both man and animal the struggle for life went on even as columns and puffs of light-gray smoke signaled an artillery duel not far away. We congratulated ourselves that we were in the air corps and not infantry.

"The field is dead ahead, two miles," said Hans, as he busily cranked the radio trying to get the tower. "My back sure is sore," he remarked. "I have the tower." "Tell `em we have an emergency and have to land fast and straight in. No screwing around!" I said.

A English-accented voice cut through the static, "I say chaps, you do have a bit of a problem. You are cleared to land straight ahead. If you can, taxi to the far end of the field away from our ammo and fuel dump in case of a fire."

We came in fast. Everyone was forward in his seat, straining against his seat belt, trying to help the crippled bird come to roost. The airfield was in chaos; P-38's, Hurricane fighters, C-46's and C-47's were parked helter-skelter about the field. Tents were pitched alongside the runway together with immense piles of supplies and a huge mountain of fuel drums. We were hauling in such large amounts of supplies so rapidly that the ground handlers were overwhelmed.

Manning, standing between Knopp and me, excitedly recounted the attack, "Holy mackerel lieutenant, I never saw those yellow devils so close before. It was just like in the movies. They came out of the sun so damn fast. The sky was clear one second and the next it was filled with Japs blazing away at us. How can two Zeros fill the whole sky? The same way those two beautiful P-38's and Hurricane did, I guess. I'm going to have to change my drawers when we get down," he chuckled. "Those fighters were chasing each other around like puppy dogs chasing their tails. Did you see that Thirty-eight nail that Jap. Did you ... ?"

I cut in, "Manning save it for the Operations officer. Right now we have to get this bucket of bolts on the deck in one piece. Gear down, full flaps Hans."

The ship cleared the rice paddies at the end of the strip and settled on the dirt runway, rolling a thousand feet before coming to a stop in a cloud of dust. The second it stopped, Manning released the cargo door and leaped out with the radio operator, Knopp and me hard on his heels. We hit the ground at full speed, tearing across the runway for the safety of the ditch along the edge. We were sure the ship was either going to blow up, catch on fire, or both.

We were about a hundred yards away when, to a man, we collapsed and fell to the ground like pole-axed steers. Shock had taken over. The extreme letdown from exhilaration, and the thrill of life-threatening danger with the adrenalin pumping at one hundred percent brought us down. God, how great it was to be here and alive. To be on this earth and not in it, which a short while ago appeared to be a certainty.

Medics helped us to a tent where the flight surgeon gave us an extra ration of strong raw whiskey to calm our nerves. Before returning to Chittagong we related our hair-raising tale to the Operations officer and examined our riddled ship. Sixty-eight bullets had slashed across the fuselage and through the wings. The big ragged hole over the navigator's table was two and a half feet long and about ten inches wide, a perfect imprint of the tip of the propeller blade.

One bullet had hit the Very pistol, our flare gun, above Knopp's head, ricocheted off and creased the full length of the metal back on his seat before burying itself in the floor. Small wonder he had a sore back. Twenty-one of the twenty-three gasoline drums were punctured by bullets. Fortunately none of the tracers ignited it.

"C'mon, you guys, hurry it up," called the Operations officer, "we have a `46 coming in and you can ride back on it. Good luck!"

I shuddered as I reflected on our episode and tried to pass it off lightly. "Okay fellows, the first thing when we get back to Chittagong we better have the chaplain to punch our cards." Hans rejoined, "Yeah, `the Old Man in the sky' was certainly looking out for us today." There was an ending chorus of "Amen!"

REMEMBERING

We were sitting in front of our bamboo hut drinking beer and the remains of our whiskey ration. "That beer tastes especially good after my final Hump mission," I remarked. "What's Rhinehart doing?"

A voice piped up, "That crazy guy is trying to catch that cobra! He can't handle over two beers without going off his rocker."

Weaving and stumbling across the courtyard Bob Rhinehart was in pursuit of a large king cobra. Waving his beer bottle he mumbled, "I'll get that goldurn snake if it's the last thing I ever do. He can't get away from Robert P. Rhinehart. Watch me fellers," he slurred.

Laughter ceased, He really was after that snake. Three of us leaped up and rushed over to Bob, down on his stomach with his right arm thrust into the cobra's hole up to his armpit.

He admonished us when we jerked him to his feet. "Now why did you guys do that? I was going to kill that miserable bastard with my bare hands. I've had it. I've had it with the snakes, the `wogs', the monsoons, the heat, the lousy, rotten C-rations, the Hump and the whole damn country of India!"

I couldn't get to sleep for a long time that night. I tossed and turned listening to the laughter of the hyenas, barking jackals-and remembering:

... the stomach retching from the vile, putrid, rotten, sickening odors of India,

... the solid sheets of seemingly never-ending monsoon rains.

... the hot, sticky, humid, oppressive heat of the jungle.

... the hellacious flying weather with furious thunderstorms, the incessant lightning, the violent turbulence, heavy icing and unpredictable winds.

... the thrill of mail call, when you got a letter from your loved ones, or a care package with six-month-old, broken, stale cookies. Outgoing mail was censored and we were forbidden to tell where we were or what we were doing. However, we could refer to paragraph two, page 104 of Frank Buck's book "Bring `em Back Alive", and there, prominently displayed, was the name of our village, Misamari. Ruth and the folks back home knew where we were.

... our bearer John, who worked for Hans Knopp and me. Father of six, twenty-three years old. He did the housekeeping, dropped the mosquito netting at night, and went to the mess hall for morning coffee. Laundry was another of his tasks. He would throw the clothes in the river to wet them, then rub on some soap, dunk them back in the water and partially wring them out. Finally, he vigorously beat them on a flat rock making the buttons fly. I think he considered the laundry done when no more buttons popped off. Our uniforms invariably suffered from "gaposis." We paid him three dollars, thirty-three rupees, a month and all the cigarettes he could bum from us for his services. It was the most money he had ever made and he considered himself fortunate and rich.

... our Aircraft Maintenance officer. Captain Collins had been in the jungles of India for more than two years with little hope of going home any time soon. He wandered through the dense jungle thickets pulling down an occasional branch and talking earnestly to the leaves. On one trip to Calcutta he bought a thirteen-year old wife for one hundred rupees -- almost ten dollars. They were happy housekeeping in their bamboo basha. He stopped talking to the trees and was learning Hindustani when I saw him last.

... the buses and trains going to the hill station at Darjeeling, Nepal. Seldom does a traveler see such a bus -- its bodywork battered with countless dents, as though it had run a gauntlet of ten-thousand Hindus throwing stones. And the trains: toy-like, with narrow-gauge tracks two feet wide. As in the buses, the people crammed inside and scores more were riding on the top clinging precariously to the platforms and the sides like clusters of grapes. The mountains were so steep that the train could not negotiate curves, instead it went forward on a short spur then backed up on another one thus climbing the sheer face of the mountains.

... flight call. Hell it seemed like I had hardly gotten to sleep when the orderly shone his flashlight in my eyes awakening me for the next flight. This was especially so during one three month period while we stockpiled arms, ammunition and fuel at Chentu, China for the planned B-29 strikes on Japan. The accident rate rose sharply corresponding with crew fatigue. My buddy, Bill Reynolds, started landing with his gear "up" when the grinding of the propellers and the brilliant spray of sparks alerted him to the danger in time for him to pull up and go around. He landed fine but he sweated for days over whether or not he was going to be court-martialed over the bent propellers and subsequent engine change. The flight surgeon bailed him out when he declared it was the result of flight fatigue. Bill had flown over 104 hours in a little over two weeks.

... sounds of the flight line: engines running up to full power, magnetos being checked, backfiring loudly if they were fouled and misfiring, the lumbering roar of fully loaded ships on take-off and the comforting quiet as the pilots pulled the throttles back to climb power.

... the bustle of Operations: Questioning the returning crews: How's the weather? What? Not fit for man or beast! Thunderstorms all the way? Any icing? What route were you on? See any Japs? OK, I have the weather and flight plan, let's go to Kunming!

... the bitter, bone-chilling cold at altitude. it had been decreed to remove the aircraft heaters thus saving 600 pounds making it possible to carry another drum of gas or another 500pound bomb. The sheepskin flying suits were good but there were times when maneuvering to land in China that neither the co-pilot nor I could stop the uncontrollable shivering and shaking from the penetrating cold.

... Saint Elmo's fire, a unique static electricity, playing back and forth across the wings, whirling around the propellers in colorful concentric circles, searing the bejesus out of us in heavy weather-making us think we were on fire before we realized it was only a trick of Mother Nature.

... the early morning ground fog temporarily closing all the Assam valley's Hump bases. I remember one of my buddies, Walt Timmons, tried to land at Chabua in this deceptively thin layer of clouds, and paid for it with his life.

... most of all I remember the men. Not necessarily by name, but the good men, the brave men, the fearful men. The men with the swagger, the pride, casual and nonchalant, their hopes, their fears, the ones who were lost, never to return. We lived with the code, if you can call it that:

IT CAN'T BE ME! IT'S NOT MY TIME!

I remember how I felt when two of our next-door buddies went down and were missing. It wasn't an unusual occurrence, but this was different because it was so close to home. We knew them, we joked with them, drank with them and talked for hours about what we were going to do when the war was over. After they were gone for thirty days without any word, Hans and I got the job of collecting their things to send home. It gave me a weird feeling sorting through their personal belongings. "I don't think their folks want any of their clothes and flying gear, do you Rusty?" Hans asked. I agreed they wouldn't, and tried on a shirt and a pair of pants. They fit, so I kept some, and so did Hans. About a week after we shipped their effects they showed up. I felt sheepish when I returned their clothes and told them why I had them. They were so glad to be back that it never fazed them. They had lost so much weight that their clothes hung on them like scarecrows. We had a good belly laugh over that episode.

... May 23, 1944. I well remember this day. It was the day my friend and faithful crew chief, Staff Sergeant Harold (NMI) Ruslander, was missing on a flight from Chabua to Misamari. He was flying with friends of mine: Captain Prosper V. Terry, pilot; Lieutenant Jake Stembaum, co-pilot; and a passenger, Captain Thomas F. Rucklehaus, on a routine valley flight. The search parties did not get to the wreck of C-46 number 7282 until November 3, after the high monsoon waters had subsided. The ship had struck a mountain at the 3,000-foot level and burned. The remains (bones) of what appeared to be four bodies were found. Near one of the bodies was a billfold, a gold ring with the inscription "1929" and a four-leaf clover on it. The billfold belonged to Captain Prosper V. Terry. No other identification was found except a fatigue cap.

Damn, I'd better get some sleep. It's only four and a half hours before I leave for the States. I rolled over and drifted off.

"C'mon Rusty, get the lead out. You'll never make it home for Christmas if you don't hurry," Hans said impatiently. "I'm waiting to drive you to Operations."
Hurriedly I stuffed the last shirt in my barracks bag and tossed in my medals; the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Air Medal with two Oak Leaf Clusters and the Distinguished Unit Citation from President Roosevelt.

"So long all you guys-Pipkin, Brownie, Dick, Len, Sonner, Willie Dick -- see you in Reno. Take care. Lead the way, Hans!"

Hans chattered as we bounced along over the dirt road to Base Operations, "Don't lose my Mom's telephone number. Tell her I love her and that I'll probably be home for her birthday in February." He punched me in the shoulder as he added with a little catch in his voice, "You lucky son-of-a-gun, Rusty, going home. Give my love to Ruth. Be sure to write and let me know how it is being a big Hump pilot instructor in Reno."

As the plane climbed toward the west and home, I recalled one of the nicest epitaphs I had heard, for a memorial at Kohima, India:

"WHEN YOU GO HOME, TELL THEM OF US

AND SAY FOR YOUR TOMORROW

WE GAVE OUR TODAY."

AL L. KOLENO

BRIEF BIO:

Al Koleno was born in Mansville, Wyoming on Christmas Day, 1916. He mover to the Roseburg, Oregon, area when he was twelve. He took his first flight at the Roseburg Airport on March 23, 1940 and received his "solo license" on April 26, 1940, his private license on May 8, 1941 and his Commercial License, with an Instructor Rating, on December 6, 1941. Just 16 days later he enlisted in the Army Air Corp, at Long beach, California, and joined the 6th Ferry Group based there. He did not go through military flight school but on February 6, 1943 he was commissioned as a "Service Pilot". After ferrying almost all operational aircraft within the States, September 30, 1944 he flew DC-‘4’s to Europe and India and shortly thereafter was transferred to flying C-54’s over the Hump into China. He was separated from the service in February 1946 and retired in May of that year.

Al married Marguerite in Elkton, Maryland on July 17, 1943. Thsy have two children, Rodney and Tracy.

HIS STORY:

I am a native of the Roseburg, Oregon, area. I took my first flight at the Roseburg Airport. The photograph below was taken on August 11, 1939.

There was only one hangar there and a dirt strip -- and only a half-dozen houses in sight. Ernest (Red) Sink and his wife Maggie were the first fixed-base operators, and were the founders of the Umpqua Flying Club. Ernest was my first Flight Instructor. George Felt was one of the instructors then as well.

I received my "Solo License" just over a month later. This was the last of a special CAA permit which allowed a pilot to fly in the US and to ferry airplanes, but by himself. After qualifying for my Flight Instructor License I flew as such for Calkins Aircraft Co., Spokane, WA, for nearly all of 1942.

On December 22, 1942 I enlisted in the Army Air Corps and joined the 6th Ferry Group in Long Beach, CA. I was checked out to ferry and to instruct in a wide variety of aircraft, including the P-38, P-39, P-40, P-51, C-47 and B-25.

On February 6, 1943 I was commissioned as a 2ndLt in the Army Air Corps, as a Service Pilot. A Service Pilot is one that did not go (did not need to go) through Air Corps flight training but was directly commissioned, almost as a "contract pilot". That designation would haunt me throughout my Air Force career.

On May 24, 1943 I was transferred to the 27th Ferry Group in Wilmington, DE. There I checked out in several additional aircraft, including the B-24, B-26, B-34 (Ventura), C-36, C-54 and C-78. For a period of time I was involved in a continuous cycle of ferrying B-24’s from Detroit to Birmingham, for installation of some gear, and thence on to delivery at Mountain Home, Utah. Then I would take a commercial flight back to Detroit to begin again.

On September 30, 1944 I began flying for the "Crescent Army Airline", on DC-4 runs to Europe and India. On the "Atlantic Route" I often flew a B-26 and went via Goose Bay, Labrador, Greenland, and Iceland into Scotland. Usually there were 5-6 P-38's flying with me. They had no navigational equipment or training and depended entirely on me to get them across. They had to fly in close in heavy weather, to keep me in sight. I Never lost one of them. If they had gone down in the chill waters of the North Atlantic they would have been goners for sure.

From there I was transferred to Hump runs, flying C-54’s. Typical flights were out of Tezgon, India, into Kunming and neighboring fields in China. The adjacent picture shows our luxurious accommo- dations in India. I am the hand-some guy in the middle. I was a 2nd Lt when I arrived but was shortly promoted to 1stLt.

The Colonels and Majors in ops usually flew the day flights, night flights were relegated to the rest of us, to the Service Pilots like me. Until late in the war, when things were clearly winding down, almost all of my flights were at night. Near the end of the war many pilots quit flying and those of us left were flying 160 or more hours per month. About 90 percent of our loads were 55-gallon drums of 100 octane gasoline.

Not enough can be said for the treacherous flight conditions over the Hump. Directly to the north of our route across the Hump were the Himalayas, which include Mount Everest, at 29,028 feet, and Mount Godwin Austen, at 28,250 feet, the two highest mountains in the world. They stretch some 1500 miles across the top of India and Burma and along the underbelly of Tibet and China. In the region of the Hump the Himalayas stretched almost directly east and west. Just south, also running generally east and west, were the Assam Valley and the broad Brahmaputra River. None of our routes crossed directly over the Himalayas.

However, directly across our route, in Japanese-held Burma, were two other ranges of mountains, separated by a high plateau. These ran generally north and south, and could not be avoided. They were of the order of 20,000 feet high, tapering down lower on the south end. That was the Hump. Kunming itself was at 6000 feet. Early in the war much of the area in Burma was unexplored and uncharted, and there were no radio navigational aids. To go down there was to be lost forever. So many did that it became known as "The Aluminum Trail", for all the downed planes along the route.

Our aircraft were not so much underpowered as chronically overloaded. As a result (in 1944) we in the C-54’s were routed E-SE at 15,000 feet from India across Burma and the Hump to a beacon in China. Then we would turn NE to Kunming and other nearby bases in China. The flight over the Hump to the beacon took about 5 hours, and it was another hour to Kunming. More lightly loaded, we would return via a route further north, at about 21,000 feet. Outbound C-46’s would generally fly further north at about 18,000 feet and the B-24’s would go at about 23,000 feet.

Our crew normally consisted of a pilot (me), co-pilot, flight engineer (non-pilot) and a radioman. The flight engineer usually sat between and just back of the pilot - co-pilot, and was available to help as needed. The cockpit was not very roomy but you could get up during the flight and walk into the back of the plane to stretch your legs.

Especially during monsoon season the route was always loaded with powerful thunderstorms, particularly spectacular at night. There was no way to avoid them, you simply chose what looked like the best route (the least electrical) and plunged on through. Sometimes it got pretty violent in the cockpit. Saint Elmo’s fire frequently glowed eerily on the prop tips and across the windshield.

On one such trip, just before midnight on August 2, 1945, we took off in another "maximum effort" exercise. Our leadership was running one of their perennial "races" with some other command as to who could get the most tonnage across the hump in one 24-hour period. Our plane had already flown twice that day and we were going again, with little intermediate maintenance.

It was routine to synchronize our props using the landing lights and as I was doing this I noted a stream of oil coming out of the #4 engine. However, this was "max effort" so there was no turning back. About the time we reached the beacon in China we noted that #4 engine had only 2-3 gallons of oil left. Still there was nothing to do but proceed, to land as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, there was an accident on the runway at Kunming and we were re-routed back to the Assam Valley. Some 45 minutes south of Kunming we lost all oil pressure in #3 engine and had to shut it down. That finally got us cleared back into Kunming. With #3 engine out and only a few gallons of oil left in #4 (on the same side), we set about to lighten the plane by throwing out the cargo of gasoline. Although we were still at 15,000 feet we kicked off the cargo door.

Again unfortunately, when we kicked it off the cargo door (picture below) it wrapped itself around the horizontal stabilizer, and pretty well banged it up (next picture). Even more unfortunately, the door stuck there, balanced on the leading edge of the stabilizer. At various times it would flop this way and that, each time totally changing the aero- dynamics. It was all the co-pilot and I could do, hauling back and shoving forward on the yoke, to keep that bear in the air, and eventually to land it at Kunming. The next morning we found the cargo door lying on the runway. Both #3 and #4 engines were frozen, never to run again.

Finally it was my turn to fly home. I flew my last trip on December 9, 1945, and then sailed, by ship, from Karachi to Seattle. I was separated from the service in February and, with leave time, was retired in May 1946.

Over the next four years I built and operated the Airport at Sutherlin. I remained on Reserve Status until 1953.

In 1950 I was hired by TWA for a contract with Ethiopia, as Captain and Instructor for Ethiopian pilots. The Ethiopian Air Lines (EAL) started with ten DC-3's, operated mostly by American crews operating out of Cairo. DC-3's were used on the interior flights and CV 240's on international flights. DC-6B's were used for the long runs to Europe, West Africa and India.

I stayed with that job until June 1960, at which time I accepted a position with FAA in Denver, CO, as an Airline Inspector. With the FAA I worked a wide variety of jobs, in a wide variety of positions, and with an equally wide variety of airlines and aircraft. Some of the aircraft of note were the Convair, DC-3, -4, -6, -7, CV-880, Lockheed Electra and the B727. In Denver I was in charge of the B737 program, and I checked out approximately 400 UAL, PSA and Western pilots.

In 1973 I moved to Reeves Air to Anchorage, AK, working with Reeves Air, Wein Air, Shelton/Carlson and others on DC-6's, Connies, C-133 BoxCars, B727's and B737's. I returned to Denver in 1975 as Lead Specialist on B727's and B 737's with Piedmont Air.

In 1979 I retired from the FAA and took a position as Director of Training with Air Florida in Miami. However, I soon became disillusioned with the slipshod operation of that airline and resigned, in June 1980.

After a short retirement period in Green Valley, AZ, I returned to the Roseburg -Sutherlin area. Made only a few local flights in small aircraft after that.My total flight time in forty years is approximately 28,000 hours. I held type ratings on DC-3, -4, -6,-7, CV-240, -340, -440, LI88-CV880, B727, B737 and all light aircraft, including light twins.

Seems like only yesterday!

FRANK VARNUM

BRIEF BIO:

Frank Varnum was born in Pasadena, California, on October 6, 1916. In the '30s his father was employed by the California Fish and Game Commission and was assigned to fish hatcheries all over the state. Frank attended five high schools, including three in his senior year. He finally graduated from Fremont High in Oakland, California, in 1934, in the heart of the Great Depression. He briefly attended business college but soon split off into a variety of jobs involving flying. In the late '30s he barnstormed with a few pilots. They would advertise rides with Frank doing a parachute jump to attract the crowd. The pilots would then sell plane rides. After the jump Frank often got some "stick time", sometimes even carrying passengers. In 1939 he went into the parachute business, packing and sales, in Fresno, California. In 1940 bought his first airplane and married his first wife, Martha.

In July 1942 he was recruited by the Oakland Public School System to teach Army Air Corps "GIs" parachute packing and emergency equipment. A few months later, after that program terminated, he switched to a job providing Primary flight instruction to Army pilots, from the front cockpit of a Ryan PT-22. In mid-1943 he joined Pan American Airlines and was inducted into the Navy, with the military designation "AP-1, inactive" (aviation pilot first class, not on active duty). For the rest of the war he flew the Navy's Boeing B-314 " Clipper", the PB2Y-3 and the PBM-3/-5, under contract to Pan Am. They would fly the Clipper between the West Coast and Hawaii and then switch to the unarmed versions of the PB2Y and PBM and continue to various destinations in the South Pacific. He was paid by PanAm.

After the war Frank bought surplus military aircraft (UC-78, BT-13, AT-6) and reworked them for civilian licenses, did a little crop dusting in a Stearman PT-17, and got divorced . Later he signed up with American Airlines and over a 25-year career flew a variety of commercial airliners, including the Convair 240, the Douglas DC-6 / -7, and the Boeing 707 / 720. He retired in 1976 as a Captain.

Frank married Donna, an American Airlines stewardess and enjoyed 37 years of marriage, including raising two daughters, Terry and Gail, from his previous marriage. Donna died in 1992. His oldest daughter had five children and the oldest two of these each have three children. All the kids, grandkids and great- grandkids are great kids.

BRIEF BIO:

I was born in Pasadena, California, on the 6th of October, 1916. My father had earned his wings in the Army Air Corps at Riverside, California, just prior to the end of WWI. My first airplane ride, in '28 or '29, was with him, in a Great Lakes at Van Nuys, California. In the '30s and '40s my father was a construction supervisor for the California Fish and Game Commission.

I attended elementary schools in Southern California and five high schools in Northern California, including three in my senior year. I played football in my senior year at Yreka high school but graduated from Fremont High School in Oakland, in 1934. Right after graduation I got my first flying lesson, all of 30 minutes in a two-cylinder Aeronca C-3. I didn't fly again for two years.

After high school I started out in business college, Armstrong's in Berkeley then Woodbury in Los Angeles, but soon dropped out in favor of American Airlines. At that time American was flying out of Grand Central Air Terminal, in Glendale. My job was fueling and washing the planes.

In my spare time I got involved with parachute jumping, at small airports around Southern California. We would advertise the jumps a week or two ahead of time. We would first land and sell rides then, late in the afternoon, I would do the advertised jump. I am the proud possessor of Parachute Rigger's License #693, and I owned my own parachute. My first jumps, from a Kinner "Swallow" biplane, were with Tony Levier, who later went on to fame as Lockheed's Chief Test Pilot. Later I flew and jumped with Harry Crosby, out of his Fokker "Super Universal". From time to time I even got to fly. CAA regulations were not very strict in those days. All of my jumps were from 2,000-2,200 feet. I did a couple delayed openings but none too low.

When my grandmother heard about my parachute jumping she offered to pay for my college education if I would stop jumping. So I did, and went off to Aero ITI and studied aircraft manufacturing methods. After her death I went back to jumping, and went to work for North American Aviation, Englewood, in their machine shop. I had a short hitch in the California Air National Guard, in the Photo Section. The CANG was based in Griffith Park, where they had a small air strip.

Then in 1939 I moved to Fresno and set up my own parachute sales and service company. In 1940 I bought my first airplane, a new Porterfield (adjacent picture) and paid something like $1250 (not more than $14,000 in today's dollars!). Today you can get one (of the few left) for $26,000. There, in my own plane, I finally got some formal flying instruction and became a legitimate pilot.

The Porterfield was a very basic 2-place tandem trainer. It had a 32-foot wingspan and a Lycoming 65 horsepower engine. Empty it weighed just 775 pounds. Cruise speed was 105 mph. The cockpit was very simple as well, with just three flight instruments, an airspeed indicator (no Mach needle on it), an altimeter, and a magnetic compass. There were also engine RPM and oil pressure gauges.

I later traded the Porterfield for a Stinson 105 but eventually bought the Porterfield back. I flew sightseers, some charter flights and rented planes and was flying almost every day, often several times a day. In 15 months there I flew 445 hours. Parachute packing and sales was my main business. On the side I used parachute silk to fashion six-foot long white silk scarves, and sold 50 or 60 of them to local open-cockpit aviators.

It was not easy to make a living in those years, I had my lean years. Just prior to the war a number of college flight training programs were getting underway. A regulation came out requiring both students and instructors to wear parachutes. This produced a lot of parachute sales for my business.

After Pearl Harbor, for security reasons, all civilian flying was prohibited within 150 miles of the coast. That included all of the San Joaquin Valley. I moved the aircraft and parachute packing business east across the mountains to Bishop. By that time I had a total of 459 flight hours in my logbook. While there I got a telegram from the Oakland Public School System asking me to come teach parachute packing and emergence equipment to Army Air Corps GI's and I jumped at the chance. My first parachute packing class consisted of six guys and twelve girls. That civilian program terminated when it was moved to a Air Force base.

By that time I was married and had a new daughter. My draft board was very happy to let me continue my civilian contributions to the war effort, as long as they involved military activities.

Meanwhile, an entrepreneur named Harry White had set up two civilian airfields, one near Fresno and the other near King City, specifically to provide Primary flight training for Air Force cadets. So, in September of 1942 I started flying the famous Ryan PT-22 "Recruit", affectionately know as the "Maytag Messerschmitt". After a brief instructor checkout at King City, on the one-year anniversary of Pearl Harbor I started instructing at Eagle Field, west of Fresno.

That was nice flying, in a nice plane; open cockpit, goggles, white scarf and all. The PT-21 was an outgrowth of the pre-war Ryan ST. The PT-22 had a 160-hp Kinner five cylinder radial engine, a wingspan of 30 feet, empty weight of 1,313 pounds and a max speed as high as 131 mph. It was very responsive and was especially fun in aerobatics. I sat in the front seat and talked at my student through a one-way "gosport' system, the student couldn't talk back.

However, it turned out that Harry and I really didn't get along very well. After just seven months with him I quit. By that time I had 904 hours in my flight log. In six months of Army flying I had accumulated 435 hours.

On December 16, 1941, very shortly after Pearl Harbor, the Navy created the Naval Air Transport System (NATS). All of the fleet of flying-boats being operated by Pan Am were sold to this new organization, and were based either at New York, New York, for trans-Atlantic operations, or at San Francisco for the Pacific routes to the South Pacific and Australia. Though flown and maintained by Pan Am employees, they were owned by and were under the control of the NATS, which determined when and where they would fly.

At the time, Pan Am was operating nine Boeing 314s. All were called "-- Clippers", a typical name being "Honolulu Clipper". Five of these were assigned to the trans-Pacific routes, the other four to Atlantic service. Fortunately for me, Pan Am's need for pilots was great so in August 1943 I was hired.

Pan Am first put us new hires through instrument checkout flying at Sherman Field in Walnut Creek, California. There we flew a number of Navy planes, including a "Cabin" Waco, Stinsons 105, SR-9-F, and SR-10-F (gull wing). After that we got checked out in water flying in the twin-engined Martin PBM-3 flying boat.

The B-314 was an impressive aircraft for its day. It was exceeded in size by only the Martin Mars flying boat, of which only five were built. Near the end of WWII the Mars boats were all serving with the U.S. Navy as transports, in parallel with the Boeing 314s on the trans-Pacific runs. Later the Hughes "Spruce Goose" dwarfed them all. The Clipper had 6,400 horsepower in four Wright Double-Cyclone radial engines, a wingspan equal to half a football field (152 feet), and even empty weighed almost 40 tons. It was a double-decker, could seat 74 and cruise 3500 miles at as much as 193 mph. They cost over a half-million dollars each (some 5 million in today's dollars). Despite the advanced state of the art in that plane, the wings were fabric-covered.

The short fins sticking out of the sides of the fuselage (see adjacent picture), called sponsons, were intended primarily to provide lateral stability on the water, obviating the need for the clumsy wingtip pontoons typical of other flying boats. They were filled with gasoline and as a result were not all that buoyant. If you had to taxi downwind, on the turn to downwind the wind could get under the upwind wing and tip the plane until the downwind wing dug into the water. In that condition a lot of water could flow into the wing, and once there could flow through the wing and into the fuselage, dousing everyone and everything. That never happened to me but I did hear of such cases. When we faced that situation we would have several of the crew walk into the upwind wing out to the outer nacelle, to provide balance during the turn. The wing at the fuselage was about eleven feet thick and contained a catwalk that led all the way out to the outboard engine. Flight engineers could actually work on the engines in flight.

Finally, on November 27, 1943, I got my first flight in the Clipper. A bunch of us candidate pilots were aboard and we each got to make one takeoff and landing circuit, involving all of twelve minutes of flight time each. Just two days later I was on my first trip to Honolulu (HNL), as fourth pilot.

We normally had a crew of eleven, including five qualified pilots. There was the Captain (God), first pilot (Ass't God), and second through fifth pilots, with the third copilot as navigator. The fifth pilot was really a "supernumerary", who was responsible was casting off and picking up the bow lines tying us to anchorage. Initially I was number four pilot on the Clipper, later number two on PBMs.

Juan Tripp, founder of Pan Am, was known before the war for hiring only graduates of the Naval Academy for his pilots. In Pan Am, in the best traditions of the Naval service, the Captain was first off the plane, even before any passengers. Before our B-314 flights the Captain would gather us in operations and grill us on emergency procedures. Then we would all "fall in" and march briskly to the plane.

The B-314 had a Sperry autopilot, on which we heavily depended. Normally there was only one pilot in the cockpit, largely to monitor the autopilot and other flight instruments, and he might sit in either the right or left seat. In addition, since our flights were so long, with only one takeoff and landing per each, the Captain normally jealously guarded those for himself. In the air, with five pilots and an autopilot, we didn't get much actual flight time. Normally I would sit in the cockpit for an hour or so and then be spelled by one of the other pilots. I could then walk around, go "downstairs" and talk to some of the passengers, grab a little sack time, etc. Lots of flight time in my logbook but not much flying. Every three months we were required to shoot three takeoffs and landings in some flying boat, to keep us current.

The cockpit was fairly roomy, even by today's standards. In the adjacent picture the panel in the center is the autopilot. You can identify a couple of the related flight instruments, including the "needle-ball" and the gyro horizon.

I found that water landings were actually smoother and easier that landings on a runway. On takeoff, once you got up on the step, you were just smoothly skimming along on the surface -- a little back-wheel and you slipped off the water into the air. On landing you could bring the plane down to where you were again just skimming the water. After you slowed a bit, again a little back-wheel and the plane would just "nose up" and mush softly down into the water. The B-314 landed smoothly at about 70-75 mph. Of course you had to remember that you were almost two stories above the water.

The early flights I was involved in normally consisted of a B-314 leg from San Francisco (SFO) to Honolulu (HNL). From there, usually after a day or so layover, we would fly a Navy plane, like a PBM, to various destinations in the South Pacific. Coming out of SFO we would normally set up cruise at around 117 mph. Then as we burned off gas that speed would creep up to 135 mph or so. We were never anywhere near the advertised max cruise of 193 mph. So when you're traveling some 2000 miles at an average speed of 126 mph that means something like a 16-hour flight, depending on the winds.

One time, in December 1944, we were just beyond the "equa-time" point-of-no-return out of SFO when HNL advised us that they were under "Amber Alert", which meant that we could not land there. Well land where? So we leaned out the mixtures and slowed the engine rpms as much as possible, and slowed our flight speed to about 100 mph -- and just sorta "hung there" over the Pacific Ocean. The props were geared down 9:5 from engine shaft speed so when we slowed the engines to 1500 rpm the props were only turning 850 rpm. It seemed like you could see the blades turning. Under those conditions we stretched the SFO - HNL flight to just under 24 hours. By the time we got near the islands the Alert was cancelled. Another time that same month that flight lasted almost 23 hours.

On layovers in Hawaii we were quartered on the sixth floor of the Moana Hotel, on Wakiki Beach. There was not a lot to do, we Pan Am-types just played a little miniature golf, right across the street from the hotel, and otherwise just killed time between flights.

Part of the time on those South Pacific routes we flew the PB2Y-3R, the transport configuration of the Consolidated "Coronado". It was almost as formidable as the Clipper. The Coronado had 4,800 horsepower in four Pratt and Whitney radial engines, a wingspan of 115 feet, and an empty weight of 20 tons. It could cruise 2,930 nautical miles at 155 mph and its stall speed was only 89 mph. As in the Clipper, the cockpit was more then two stories off the water. The adjacent picture shows large, retractable pontoons on the wingtips. For landing and takeoff these rotated down 90-degrees and kept the wingtips out of the water. Of course, they were bulky and heavy.

The combat version (without the "R") carried eight 50-caliber flexible machine guns, up to four 1000-lb bombs externally and eight 1000-lb bombs internally. In the "R" version they took out all the machine guns and sealed up the gun turrets, and we never loaded any droppable ordnance. However, because we carried U.S. Mail we were required, by the post office, to carry a 45-caliber pistol to protect the mail. Later in the war that requirement was abandoned.

The Navy's PBM-3R was a another flying boat, with just two 1900 hp Wright Cyclone engines. It had 118 ft wingspan in a distinctive "gull" shape and with fixed pontoons. Empty it weighed 33,175 lb and could carry 8,000 lbs of bombs in the engine nacelles. The -3 version was heavily armed, with "twin 50s" in nose, dorsal, and tail turrets. Again, in our (-3R) version all those turrets were removed and sealed off.

Normally we would make a stop in mid-Pacific, at places like Wallis Island, and then continue on to South Pacific Islands like Noumea or Espirito, or to New Zealand or Australia (Auckland or Brisbane). Usually we would make several trips to the South Pacific before retuning to SFO.

By the time we were flying into places like Noumea and Espirito the war had moved on up the island chain, closer to Japan, and we saw little evidence of the enemy. One time, however, we caught a Jap submarine on the surface, alongside a sub-tender. They couldn't tell that we were an "R" version of the PBM-3 so we could have been carrying depth charges. The sub quickly crash-dived, while the tender sped away at "top speed".

Another time we actually spotted a Jap Betty bomber crossing ahead of us. We knew there were guns sticking out all over that plane, we would have been dead meat if they had spotted us. Fortunately we were surrounded by the usual South Pacific array of small cumulus clouds so we ducked into a few, and he never saw us. Half a century later this action qualified me for membership in the Southern Oregon Warbirds.

As soon as the war was over so was the Navy contract with Pan Am. My Pan Am tour lasted 30 months. Shortly after the end of the war my first wife, Martha, and I divorced. She was later killed in an auto accident.

It was a good time to buy surplus military aircraft so I bought, renovated, and re-licensed UC-78s, BT-13s, and an AT-6. I was never able to get the FAA to allow a license on an AT-10 so I disassembled it and sold what parts I could. I modified the AT-6 to a three-seater, with the standard front cockpit and a side-by-side rear cockpit. In my Stearman PT-17 I did some crop dusting. In March of '46 I was flying the famous Vultee BT-13 "Vibrator". I also ran a flight school for GIs on the GI Bill and a new aircraft dealership.

In 1951 I signed up with American Airlines. I stayed with AA for 25 years and retired as a Captain, flying the Boeing 707 / 720. Along the way I married an AA stewardess, Donna, raised two girls from my first marriage, and retired to Roseburg, Oregon. Donna died a dozen years ago so I now live alone. My current hot project is building a Pitts Special aerobatic plane, from the plans. I am 86 years old but I plan to test fly that Pitts myself (no outside snap rolls or "lomcevak" maneuvers). Life is still good.