The German Triangle

by Carl Messinger

  The crew chief unstrapped himself from his seat and peered out the left side window.

  “Looks like it’s stuck, Sir,” he said into the intercom. “It’s about a third of the way down.”

  Ron jiggled the toggle switch, hoping that the intermittent current would cause the wheels to drop.

  “Anything now?” he asked.

  “Nope, still hanging.”

  There was a standard procedure for something like this and Ron knew what had to be done.

  “Templehof Tower, this is C827. Experiencing gear problems. Request permission to exit landing pattern and take up holding position until resolved.”

  “C827, understand. Take up the northern holding position and report status when able.”

  “Templehof Tower, this is C827. Roger, leaving landing pattern and moving to northern holding pattern. Will report status when determined.”

  “Roger, C827. Good luck.”

  Ron slowly banked the loaded plane to the left and proceeded to take up a circular pattern north of the city. Knowing that problems will surely crop up, the Operations folks had established a holding sector just north of the city. Aircraft experiencing any type of problem which precluded it from landing were instructed to that position which removed them from the traffic flow and gave them the opportunity to resolve the problem. Once resolved, they rejoined the landing pattern and completed their mission. If not resolved, they were not allowed to land in Berlin but rather instructed to return to their own base, the thought being that if there was a problem with the landing, better to have one of the departure airfields unusable than one of the two airfields in Berlin closed down.

  Ron checked his fuel gauges and saw that fuel was not a problem. Having fueled prior to his last departure, they showed enough fuel to last several hours. A quick glance over the other instruments indicated that with the exception of the reluctant wheel all else was green. He glanced over to his co-pilot who made a circular motion with his hand. Ron nodded and switched on his intercom.

  “Mac, get out the hand-crank and try and get it down with that.”

  Mac looked up at the pilot, gave him a thumbs up and proceeded to get the hand-crank from its storage locker. The crank was much like that used for changing a car tire. It was L-shaped, with a lug on one end which fit into the landing wheel gear. Turning the other end, the lug rotated the gear, manually forcing the wheel down until it clicked into place, locking it and precluding its collapse upon touching down.

  With the hand-crank in place, Mac tried to turn the gear, lowering the wheel. As much as he tried, the wheel would not descend. Again and again he tried, but each time to no avail.

  “Sir, it’s not turning. Did you disengage the electric motor?”

  “You dumb jerk,” Ron thought of himself as he reached for the fuse to disengage the motor which raised and lowered the gear. Without doing that, the motor acted as a brake to the wheel, and Mac could have used a tank to turn the crank and it still would have not worked.

  “Sorry, Mac. Try it now.”

  The crew chief returned to the hand-crank and applied pressure. Slowly but surely, the crank turned and he could see the wheel begin to appear below the wing. The rush of the wind against the wheel made it tough, but about five minutes later the wheel was down and locked.

  “Way to go, Mac,” said Ron when he saw the red light turn green. “Way to go.”

  “Templehof Tower, this is C827. Incident resolved. Ready to resume approach for landing.”

  “Roger C827, come to heading 290 till you cross the river, then assume heading of 180.”

  Ron knew the flight route would take him west of the city, then turn south toward the long line of planes heading to the beleaguered city. The tower would try to fit him into the pattern by slowing down other planes to make room, then slide him into the now vacant airspace.

  “Roger Templehof, heading 290. Request maintenance assistance upon landing and unloading for hanging left wheel. Required hand crank to set and lock into position.”

  “Roger C827. Will advise ground control, lead vehicle and maintenance to expect your arrival.”

  Reaching the river, Ron banked the plane to the left and headed south. As expected, he soon saw several planes heading almost perpendicular to his route. The tower skillfully guided him between two other C-54s and he resumed his approach routine, going through the same checklist he had done a hundred times.

  The landing was smooth, the apprehension they all experienced turned out to be unnecessary. Instead of the normal lead vehicle, a jeep with flashing red lights maneuvered in front of him and led him first to the unloading area where fifteen minutes later he was done, then to the maintenance hangar where a group of mechanics were waiting to identify and solve the problem. The ground guide led him to a designated spot and signaled to Ron to stop the engines. With a flutter, the huge propellers came to a halt.

  The maintenance crew scrambled aboard as Ron and his crew looked for a cup of coffee. The Army Air Corps flew on coffee.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Acouple of hours later Mac found the pilots in the mess hall still drinking the dark coffee and talking with other pilots from Britain and France. Their countries were contributing to the airlift and while most of the flights were undertaken by the United States, every little bit was appreciated. The pilots regardless of their nationality all had the same persona, the swag of men on a mission, the rescue of the free world from the clutches of Ivan. They were united in their mission and determined to complete it as best they could.

  “Sir, we should be ready to go in about ten minutes,” said Mac as he walked up to the two American pilots seated at the long table.

  Ron looked up and nodded as he took one last sip. Ron liked Mac. He could be relied upon to get things done. He was the doer of the trio who saw that the needs of the two officers were taken care of, whatever that might be. Ron and Jack relied on Mac to handle the details. Jack, in turn, would handle the flight plans, maintenance scheduling, and logistics associated with the aircraft. He and Mac worked well together and Ron, the overseer, the big-picture guy, kept them focused and headed in the right direction. Ron was the rudder of a ship, guiding the crew to achieve success after success. Jack kept the oars moving, and Mac made sure the other two had the tools they needed to do their jobs. It worked well.

  The two pilots shook the hands of their counterparts and left the mess hall. Passing through the door, they could see the last of the mechanics exiting the side hatches of their plane. Mac was handing down the mechanics' tool chests and looked up as he saw the two pilots approaching. He reached down to give each a hand up the ladder and closed the hatch behind them as they walked to the front of the aircraft.

  “The problem with the gear was a relay switch that went bad,” Mac said. “They replaced the switch and tested it. It should be good to go. Meanwhile, I had them top off the tanks since we had the time. Should be enough for another couple of runs before more is needed.”

  “Mac was always thinking ahead” thought Ron. “He could have sat around waiting for the mechanics do their job, but instead he had the plane refueled to ensure continued operations without having to stop again. Good job.”

  Ron settled himself into the pilot's seat leaving the canvas strap loose until they reached the number one take-off spot. He looked over at Jack who was busy going through the check list prior to take-off. Some of the items could be checked by one pilot and Jack was always ahead of the game when it came to that. Other items needed to be checked by both of the pilots, and Jack's part was usually done by the time that he got settled in his seat.

  The engines started smoothly, one at a time, until all four were humming sweetly. All the gauges showed green except the brake and as Ron slowly released it and pushed forward on the throttles, the red turned green and the steel Skymaster slowly lumbered toward the line of planes waiting to get airborne. Following instructions from ground control, he settled his plane behind an older C-47 and waited his turn.
/>
  Fifteen minutes later Ron tightened his shoulder straps, made a right turn and lined up down the center of the runway.

  “C827, you are cleared for take-off. See you next time.”

  “Roger, Templehof tower, C827 rolling.”

  The C-54 slowly accelerated down the runway, smoothly left the confines of the earth and took its place among the noisy metal flock headed to reload and return at a later time.

  The flight was short but hampered by a line of clouds which reduced the visibility. While that would normally not have been a problem, with so many planes in the air the two pilots were constantly twisting and turning heads to avoid bumping into something. Even Mac was kept busy, moving from one side of the aircraft to the other, trying to provide another set of eyes.

  The plane rumbled through the sky at about 250 miles per hour, below its maximum speed but a comfortable cruising speed. At the designated point, Ron began his descent into Rhein Main. The plane buffered a little as it sliced through the clouds but suddenly broke free and into the clear. Ron could see the airfield about 30 miles ahead, He slowed the aircraft and contacted the tower.

  “Rhein Main tower, this is C827 requesting permission to land.”

  “Roger C827, we have you in sight. Distance is 25 miles, descend to 5000 feet and wait further instructions.”

  Ron looked over at Jack who was again going through the landing checklist. He glanced at the panel and saw that all was in order. In preparation for the final approach he switched on the landing lights and toggled the landing gear switch. He could feel the wheel wells open and the grinding of the gears as they lowered the rubber wheels into position. Unlike the C-47, the C-54 had a nose wheel. Ron had had to get used to that during the transition from the old C-47. During the first landing of the C-54 he had expected the rear of the aircraft to slowly sink to the concrete. When the aircraft started to lean forward he momentarily panicked and the instructor pilot had laughed, explaining that almost all of the transition pilots did the same thing. It was second nature now.

  The red light blinked on the control panel and its flashing caught both Ron and Jack at the same time. It was the left landing gear. Again.

  “Damn,” thought Ron. “Here we go again. Mac, check it out again, will you?”

  “Looks like the same thing, Skipper. I'll get the crank.”

  Ron nodded in agreement and remembering the last time, reached over to disengage the electric motor that, for the second time, had failed to do its job. He glanced over his shoulder and gave his crew chief the thumbs up indicating that he could go about his task.

  Mac set up the hand crank and slowly started to move the left gear down into position. The wheel

  reluctantly emerged from its comfortable den and moved into position.

  “C827 this is Rhein Main tower. L Descend to 2000feet and take up visual approach. You are cleared for landing.”

  “Rhein Main tower, C827 cleared for landing.”

  Ron nudged the nose of the plane downward, the propellers pulling the steel cylinder through the air toward the concrete ribbon straight ahead. Turbulence from the ground shook the plane as it descended, sometimes severely shaking the pilots.

  Ron looked over his shoulder at Mac who was still trying to lower the wheel. He struggled against both the wind racing against the wheel and the bouncing of the aircraft. Unsteadily, he nevertheless kept turning the crank until Ron indicated that the panel light had turned green. Mac stowed away the crank, cursing the mechanics who had failed to do their job. He swore he would give them a piece of his mind the next time he was in Berlin. Still being bounced around, he managed to get to his seat and strap himself in and waited for the landing.

  Ron aimed the silver bird to touch down about one-third of the way down the runway. Keeping the nose of the aircraft up, the right wheel touches first, screeching as it starts to rotate and roll. The left side of the aircraft settles shortly thereafter and the nose wheel begins its smooth rotation to earth.

  Suddenly the left side of the aircraft lurches and squeals to the concrete.

  And all hell breaks loose.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The three men in the rushing cylinder felt before they knew that something was wrong. As the left wing settled down to the horizontal, there was a loud crack out the left window. Ron turned quickly to the left to see what it was while Jack steadfastly kept his eyes on the runway, his hands securely around the wheel waiting for the next thing. Mac was secure in the rear of the aircraft heard it also, his head straining to see out the left window.

  It was Mac who saw it first.

  “Sir, left gear is….”

  Before he could finish his sentence, both pilots understood what had happened. While the light on the console had turned green indicated that the left wheel had been lowered and locked in place, in fact that was not the case. The wheel had failed to lock, and the green light had mistakenly indicated a locked gear. The left wing, the air still flowing over its curved silhouette, remained horizontal to the runway, but Ron knew that if he slowed down, the wing would drop, come in contact with the runway, and the plane would careen down the concrete.

  Without even thinking, he shoved the throttles forward and the four Pratt and Whitney engines roared in protest. The runway quickly sped underneath the crippled plane and Ron realized that he had to make a choice. If he kept on going at the speed he was going, he would quickly run out of runway and barrel head first into an unfinished building at the end of the pavement. There was just not enough left of the concrete ribbon to allow the plane to gain sufficient speed to clear the building. That was apparent.

  The alternative was to break the plane, let the wing sag to the ground, and hope to withstand the resulting spin. He had seen it before, the spinning propellers clawing at the concrete as though trying to dig themselves a hole. The tips of the blades broke off or bent upward, some staying stuck in the concrete, some flying through the air like an airborne guillotine, and some just bent as if to say this is the best I can do.

  “Hang on, guys…going to bring it to a stop, someplace.”

  Ron brought the throttles all the way back to reverse, hoping to bring the plane to a halt before the end of the runway. As he did so he stomped on the brake, locking the nose wheel and the one wing wheel till they smoked. Alternating between applying the brakes and backing off of them, he hoped to stop the plane without the risk of fire. He fought the nose wheel, struggling to turn right as the right brake took hold, but nothing slowed the left side of the aircraft. Jack joined him in trying to keep the nose wheel straight, and between the two of them they physically stopped the plane from spinning to the right.

  To his left, Ron could see the left wing begin to sag, the propeller getting dangerously close to the ground. But he had no choice; the end of the runway was starring him right in the face.

  He heard the sirens of the emergency vehicles and looked up to see them heading in his direction from the end of the runway he was approaching. He had always wondered why they were at either end of the runway, but now understood that accidents usually took place at either end, not in the middle. By being at the end, they were able to reach the scene that much quicker. And the difference between life and death could be a matter of seconds.

  The sounds of the sirens were suddenly overridden by the left propeller screeching across the concrete, following quickly by the second. Blades of the shattered first propeller flew through the air, then cart-wheeled along the grass until falling over as though a result of exhaustion. By the time the blades of the second propeller hit, the wing tip had already been ripped off and liquid was flowing from the wing like olive oil over a salad. But this was not olive oil, but rather highly flammable aviation fuel. Ron watched in horror as the deadly liquid spewed out, but even more so as the plane was now turning in its direction on what was now the remains of the left wing. With nothing to do but wait, he closed his eyes and prayed.

  With nothing to support the left wing, it hit the g
round taking with it the rear of the airplane. Mac was sitting about two-thirds down the empty cargo compartment realizing that what was to happen was out of his hands. He reached up and tightened his straps one last time just as the fuselage began to crack immediately to his left, between him and the cockpit. Within seconds he was riding in a tail section completely separated from the rest of the aircraft. Having no wheels and forced forward by its own momentum, the tail section slid forward and to the right of the front of the plane. He saw both pilots look at him when he passed, but that became a quick memory as the cockpit rotated to the left, toward the leaking fuel while the rear of the plane escaped the harshness of the concrete and settled into the welcome softness of the grass infield and came to a stop.

  Mac waited for a fraction of a second, then knew that he had to get out of the plane in case of fire. Releasing his harness, he quickly moved to the gaping hole where the cockpit had been and jumped down onto the grass. Without hesitation, he ran around the tail section to see the situation of the two pilots.

  It was not good.

  The cockpit had almost made a 180 degree turn, facing in the opposite direction from where it had landed a couple of minutes ago. The liquid fuel continued to flow out of the wing tanks and the nose had settled into a big puddle. The emergency vehicles were scurrying across the field as quickly as possible, ambulances, fire engines, and other emergency vehicles all intent on reaching the crew before the unthinkable happened. Small grass fires dotted the scene, caused by the metal scraping on the concrete, sending sparks into the grass and causing the flare-ups.

  Mac realized the danger, and ran as fast as he could to the cockpit, now laying like a dead bird, its wings broken and its body lying in ruins. Because of his proximity to the cockpit, he was the first person there, the emergency crews roaring across the field but slowed by the unevenness of the terrain. First that is, except for one small brush fire that seemed to be racing him to the two pilots. They both reached the wounded aircraft at the same time.