The German Triangle

by Carl Messinger

  The German Triangle

  Carl Messinger

  Copyright © 2020 Carl Messinger

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.

  JKL Publishing—Scottsdale, AZ.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-578-67520+6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020906769

  Title: The German Triangle

  Author: Carl Messinger

  Digital distribution | 2020

  Paperback | 2020

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real.

  Dedication

  In this time of COVID-19, it is impossible to dedicate any menial endeavor such as this book to anyone other than those who struggle, strive, reach out, and perform their duties above and beyond what could be expected in the sometimes futile attempt to save a human life. A mere “thank you” is insufficient to sooth the pain of watching someone die, insufficient to watch the crying and weeping as loved ones pass on, and insufficient to realize that they have to go through it again, and again, and again.

  A crippled man was once challenged to walk around a conference table without the aid of his crutches. He accepted the challenge and after two steps, fell to the floor. He got up, walked another two or three steps, and fell again. This continued many times until he had circled the table and returned to his seat. His colleagues were amazed that he had failed many times yet had still reached his destination.

  When confronted with the fact that he had fallen, had failed so many times, his reply was simple.

  “Failure is not the falling down, failure is not getting back up”

  With the confidence and attitude of those who lead us in this terrible time,

  WE WILL GET UP!

  Chapter One

  The cold damp fog hung over the landing field like a blanket struggling to keep a child warm. It swirled and moved as the wind shifted first one direction then another, unsure of its path, but knowing that it must keep moving. The fog had been there most of the night and the dawn had not yet gathered enough strength to chase it away. It enjoyed the last of its playtime without pondering the consequences of the appearance of the life-giving orb which would eventually probe through the mist and tear it into little shreds, shreds that would soon be nothing more than a memory of the night before and the vision of the night to come.

  The dark form of the plane slowly rolled through the mist, escaping its cover as it crept down the taxiway toward the west end of the runway. High atop the concrete tower, a single pair of eyes tried to penetrate the watery darkness, hearing the noise of the engines way before actually seeing it. As the throbbing of the engines grew louder, the sleek silhouette form of the C-47 slowly emerged from the mist and moved purposefully in front of the tower. The watchful eyes could see the shadows of the men inside the cockpit going through their pre-flight check, something they had done many times before but something which they knew had to be done each time to enhance the possibility of a successful and safe flight.

  Three men sat in the cockpit of the C-47. The pilot, in the left seat, was intense in his scrutiny of the instruments monitoring the health of the two Pratt and Whitney engines. His eyes flicked over the range of dials, registering in his mind their condition and comparing them to what he knew to be acceptable. One gauge, the oil pressure for the number one engine, seemed a little low and he reached out and flicked the glass dome, hoping to cause an adjustment of the tiny needle. After three flicks he resorted to a sharp whack with his closed fist. The tiny gauge jumped, and the needle, knowing it was beaten, moved further into the green and settled there. The co-pilot glanced over and chuckled.

  The navigator, sitting behind the co-pilot, was buried in a map on the small ledge that served as a table. A tiny red lamp provided the illumination and combined with the white lights up front, formed an eerie shade of pink. With a ruler and protractor, he traced the proposed route onto the map, jotting down times, speeds, and locations as he figured out the best way to their destination. Emergency landing fields were identified and marked on the map and on the flight plan. Of course, there were no emergency landing fields in the English Channel and the navigator knew that once over the water their best course was to keep boring through the night sky till they reached the shores of France. He thought of the cold channel water and quickly turned back to his maps looking for the fastest way across the Channel.

  The co-pilot had just about finished his check-list. He too had confirmed the normality of the engine gauges and had also checked the onboard fire extinguishing system, the transponder, and the radios. All seemed ready and he turned to the navigator and gave a thumbs up. The navigator returned the salute and they both looked at the pilot. As the plane moved into the mist away from the tower, the watchful eyes saw the pilot nod in acknowledgment. Another one was ready to go.

  Reaching the end of the taxiway, the pilot rotated the wheel to the left, eased up on the throttle, and coasted the metal bird to a stop just before the runway. He made a final adjustment to his shoulder harness as the co-pilot strained to see through the fog to his right, hoping not to see the on-rushing lights of a plane landing. The navigator glanced nervously around well aware that if something was going to happen, the chances are that it would happen at take-off or landing. His eyes fell on the escape hatch and he mentally opened it and climbed out of the burning wreckage to safety. His concern was interrupted by the status of the radio relaying instructions from the watchful eyes in the tower.

  “Roger, C-87463, you are cleared for runway 090.”

  Without a word, the pilot slowly eased the throttles forward and the props of the two engines ground into the misty air, slowly pulling the plane onto the runway. The white line marking the center of the concrete ribbon came into view and the nose of the plane slowly swung left, its uplifted profile pointing down the length of the ribbon, its tail wheel slightly to the left of perfect.

  “Lakenheath tower, this is C-87463 ready for take-off.”

  “Roger, C-87463, you are cleared for take-off. Good luck.”

  The pilot slowly pushed the throttles forward while keeping his foot on the brake. The co-pilot reached over with his left hand and placed it behind the pilot’s, a procedure meant to ensure that the pilot did not accidentally pull back on the throttles in a critical moment causing the plane to lose its forward momentum and crash into the very earth it was trying to leave.

  The engines began to whine at a high pitch and the fuselage of the plane started to shake as the metal bird strained at the bit, eager to rid itself of its earthly status and assume its rightful position in the sky. The pilot and co-pilot watched the gauges until satisfied that both engines had achieved sufficient RPM. With a sudden jolt that threw the co-pilot and navigator against their harnesses, the pilot released the pressure from the brake and the anxious bird began to run to the sky.

  Runways are never as smooth as they look, and it took considerable skill and strength to keep the plane in a straight line. The pilot, one hand on the throttles and one hand on the wheel, glanced back and forth from the air speed indicator to the runway, then back to the air speed indicator. The co-pilot, his hand still resting behind the throttle, called out the air speed over the intercom to assist the pilot. The navigator just sat there, his fingers tightly gripping the arms of his chair, his eyes closed and his mind praying.

  About a third of the way down the runway, almost opposite the tower, the tail wheel lifted off the concrete. Immediate
ly, the vibration of the plane was considerably lessened. Only the two wing wheels now kept the plane out of its natural element. Passing before the tower, the pilot could feel the charging plane begin to feel the lift, as the wheels now bounced more than rolled. As the air speed indicator passed the critical point, the pilot eased back on the wheel and the well named Gooney Bird left the confines of the ground and gracefully rose into the sky, its lights blinking a farewell to the still watchful eyes in the tower.

  It was February, 1948 and Air Force Lieutenant Ron Matthews was en route to occupied Germany. It was his first trip to the war-ravished country having joined the effort to free the world of the Nazi terror too late to have any impact. After graduating from college in New Jersey he joined the Army as did many others before him, and reported to Fort Dix for basic training. While there, he applied for flight training and six weeks later found himself at flight school in Alabama. He had enjoyed flight school, at least the second half of it. The first half of the course had been spent in the classroom learning the theory of flight, flight procedures, tactics, and all the other things one had to learn to be able to stay alive in the air. Having just spent four years behind the desk, he was yearning for something more exciting and eager to get into the air.

  The second half of flight school was tough, but exciting for Matthews. He was eager to prove himself and spent every available moment on the flight line talking with the maintenance chiefs and mechanics to learn as much as possible about the planes. While his fellow students hurriedly rushed to see the many young ladies anxious to meet an Army pilot, Matthews climbed in, around, and under the different aircraft to learn how and why they flew. He became familiar with weapons systems on fighters, with bomb-bays on the bigger bombers. He traced wiring for radios and intercoms and fuel lines leading from the fuel tanks to the engines. He studied schematics with the crew chiefs to troubleshoot problems and served as a go-fer just to be able to watch the mechanic fix the problem. Initially considered a pain by the maintenance crews, he had earned their respect by his sincere desire to learn their trade. By the end of flight school, he either knew how to fix a problem, or knew where to go to get the answer to the problem.

  But his true love was being in the air. The first time in a plane he was like a kid in a candy store. His instructor had to keep on reminding him that this was just an orientation flight, a chance for him to get accustomed to being off the ground. Matthews wanted to stay up forever, soaring over the countryside. He constantly looked down at the ground below, knowing that flying was the one thing he wanted to do in his life. He loved the feeling of flight, of being with the birds. He enjoyed the freedom from the routine of gravity, the control of his own destiny as he skillfully guided the trainer for the first time. The first flight had ended all too soon, but what he had experienced would stay with him for the rest of his life.

  The steady drone of the two Pratt and Whitney R-1830-92 engines sounded like sweet music to Matthews’ ears as he skillfully steered the C-47 through the mist and the clouds toward the East, the light of the rising sun beginning to show itself and shove aside the darkness. He glanced over the instruments and found everything to be satisfactory. His co-pilot was performing lookout duties, peering out the still fog-surrounded windows in what would have been a vain effort if in fact he did sight another plane approaching. The navigator had loosened his grip on his chair and was intently trying to determine their location using an average speed, along with his watch, and the compass nestled among the other instruments between the two men in front of him.

  The combined 2,400 horsepower of the two engines smoothly pulled them upward toward the lightening sky. The gray mist started to grow thinner and thinner, flecks of dark blue beginning to punctuate the sky like the blue crystals in laundry soap. The crystals multiplied rapidly and the combination of the falling ground and the rising sun soon provided an azure blue carpet upon which the outstretched wings of the C-47 seemed to rest.

  Reaching an altitude of 16,000 feet, Matthews gently tilted the nose of the plane down until they were flying level. A check of the airspeed indicator showed 190 miles per hour, about 40 miles below the plane’s maximum speed. The heading was almost due East. The navigator tried to visually check his location but the fog below hampered his attempt. The next major landmark would be the English Channel, so he would have to wait till then. All indicators were normal so Matthews handed the controls over to his co-pilot, squeezed past the navigator and entered the cargo compartment of the plane.

  For the most part the cargo compartment was empty. His duffel and those of the other two crewmen lay on the floor near the door. A couple of canvas bags containing mail were strewn alongside them. The canvas web seats were strapped to the bulkheads. When dropped into place, they held 28 troops with full equipment. Matthews had only seen a full compartment one time. It had been back in the States when he was transitioning from a single engine aircraft to dual engine. Part of the transition was taking part in war games and he was assigned to transport troops to a dirt strip somewhere in Georgia. He remembered being concerned about the troops’ safety, their lives being dependent on his flying skills. He was glad he did not have to do it in combat.

  Matthews started to go through his duffel but was stopped by the compartment speaker crackling that the Channel was in sight. He stood up and walked back to the cockpit, again squeezing past the navigator who seemed pleased with himself because their actual location closely corresponded with where he had calculated them to be.

  Matthews climbed back into his seat, adjusted his shoulder harness and looked through the narrow window of the steady plane. The jagged coastline of England was rapidly approaching and he could easily make out where the land ended and the water began. Scattered boats up and down the coast bounded on the often-white waves as their crews sought to make a living by reaping what the sea had to offer. This was not as easy as it seemed to be as the currents of the North Sea meet those of the Atlantic Ocean and often caused rough seas. Combine that with the strong winds, and Matthews knew the idyllic setting he watched pass under his plane was more in the mind than in reality.

  Matthews remembered his history and the role of the English Channel as a protector of England from invasion. Before Hitler’s failure to cross the Channel, others like the Spanish Armada and Napoleon’s fleet had tried and failed. The advent of the airplane had removed the invincibility of the Channel as the supreme protector of England. That role had been taken over by the RAF. But the Channel still did its job as a deterrent to invasion. Not since William, Duke of Normandy, invaded England and defeated the English at the Battle of Hastings in October, 1066 had the Channel failed in its duty to turn away a land invasion.

  Out the left window, Matthews could see the town of Dover sliding behind the wing. The legendary white cliffs of Dover consisting of chalk and limestone also came and went. Their flight across the channel was planned to be over the narrowest part, a mere 21 miles wide. At their current air speed the crossing would take just under seven minutes. Already he could see the French coast dead ahead and the small town he knew to be Calais.

  Matthews glanced over to his co-pilot and motioned that he would take over the duties. He loved to fly and while he knew he had to let his co-pilot have some air time, he would have flown the whole way had it been up to him. The flight from Calais to just outside of Frankfurt was about 400 miles. He would fly the first 100 miles, then let his co-pilot take it till they contacted Rhein-Main Air Base. He would take it in from there.

  His intercom crackled and the navigator advised Matthews to head a little south, just a couple of degrees, but it would put them on the right path to their destination without having to make any last minute adjustments. Turning slightly south, they flew over the Belgium countryside, over its capital, Brussels, and then over Luxembourg. Matthews recognized what once had been one of Europe’s strongest fortresses high above the Alzette River. Started in 963 as a small castle, it had grown and developed into a mighty structure si
tuated along important trade routes. In May of 1940, it fell to the Nazi troops in one day.

  Matthews heard the navigator issue instructions to the co-pilot to change his direction and felt the plane turn a little to the left and straighten out. They were over Germany now and not far from Rhein-Main. He reached down and picked up the flight plan and looked for the new radio setting. The gauge on the instrument panel had not been changed and he glanced back over his right shoulder to see what the navigator was doing. The navigator was just checking his plan and he reached up to switch the frequency to the proper channel. Matthews clicked on his radio and spoke.

  “Rhein-Main tower, this is C-87463. Come in please.”

  “Roger, C-87463, this is Rhein-Main tower. We have you on the screen at 75 miles west. Begin your descent on my command.”

  “Roger, waiting.

  Matthews glanced at his co-pilot and took over the controls of the aircraft. As he approached the airfield, he and the tower kept up a steady dialogue, one directing, the other flying. The airfield was about 20 miles away and Matthews could make out its racetrack shape. The main runaway was flanked by a taxiway on either side. The taxiway met at each end of the runway forming a large oval with the runway bisecting the oval length-wise. The area surrounding it had been stripped bare of vegetation and the whole airfield looked like it was some sort of alien carving meant to give directions. Matthews sighed and turned the plane onto its final approach.

  The rubber tires hit the pavement with a screech before they caught the friction and started to rotate. Matthews immediately reduced the throttle and allowed the craft to steady itself before applying a light touch to the brakes. He had learned that an initial light touch was necessary to ensure that both wheels were braking evenly. All too often, one brake would grab more severely than the other and the pilot had to wrestle the craft back to a straight line. Sometimes they were not successful with the result that the airplane swerved off the runway onto the dirt and airplanes don’t do well on dirt. Several such instances had etched into his mind the need for a light touch.