“In October 1948, quite unexpectedly, I received a letter from the U.S. Air Force recalling me to active duty as a first lieutenant to fly the Berlin Airlift. I liked the idea of going back into the military. I missed flying. The middle of November I received orders to report to Great Falls AFB, Montana, for transition training into the C-54. When I arrived, three feet of snow lay on the ground. It was so cold it practically took my breath away. The training I received duplicated the Rhein-Main–to–Tempelhof flight pattern, including takeoff and letdown procedures. Our approaches were GCA-radar controlled, and the landing simulated the short five thousand–foot runways at Tempelhof. The training aircraft were loaded with ten tons of bagged sand to simulate the weight we would be hauling once we got to Germany. I finished my training in December and was home for Christmas. The first week in January 1949 I reported to Westover AFB in Massachusetts, which was the main jumping-off base for high-priority Berlin Airlift support flights to Germany. I was about to start on one of the greatest adventures of my life.
“My destination was Wiesbaden, in the American zone. They didn’t waste time getting me in the air once I arrived. Us newcomers were required to fly nine trips as copilots, and then we took three check rides as first pilot before being turned loose. I accomplished this in my first week.
“The procedure they had established to ensure proper spacing between planes was ingenious. There were three air corridors to Berlin. We flew the southern corridor and landed at Tempelhof. The English and our aircraft from Celle and Fassberg flew the northern corridor and landed at Gatow and Tegel. Everyone returned through the central corridor. Precise spacing was essential because we had a steady line of planes going to Berlin three minutes apart. To maintain this spacing we had three radio beacons we passed over before entering the corridor. Each pilot, when passing over a beacon, called out his hardstand number and the exact time over the beacon. Since I knew the number of the plane ahead of me, I could tell how far behind I was when I crossed the beacon. If I was more than three minutes behind, I sped up a little. If I was less than three minutes behind, I slowed down.
“We also kept a five hundred–foot altitude difference between airplanes. One airplane would fly at 5,500 feet, the next at 5,000 feet, and the third at 4,500 feet. Then the stagger would start over again, with the following aircraft flying at 5,500 feet, and so on. The corridors were only twenty miles wide, so I had to maintain a pretty accurate heading. When I was fifty miles from Berlin, I was picked up by long-range radar, and if anyone was too close or too far behind the plane ahead, the radar controller would have us make corrections to get back to the three-minute spacing as we approached Tempelhof. After flying once or twice a day, seven days a week, and most of the time at night or in solid instrument weather, things began to get a little monotonous. We were getting tired and bored. To relieve the boredom, to keep us awake, some pilots made wisecracks over the radio. Of course, that was strictly prohibited, but it was overlooked and tolerated under the circumstances. On one occasion a plane reached the fifty-mile point out of Berlin, and I overheard the long-range radar controller directing him to make a 360-degree turn to lose one minute. The pilot responded, ‘If I make a whole 360-degree turn, I’ll lose two minutes.’ There was momentary silence, then the radar controller came back on the air and said, ‘Do a 180 and back in.’ Dialogue such as this continued through the winter and helped us to relieve the tension and pressure of continuous precision flying at night and in bad weather.
“On each of our flights we carried ten tons of cargo. A large flatbed truck with a ten-ton load backed up to the plane as soon as we landed in Wiesbaden. The cargo to go in the front of the plane (we carried only food from Wiesbaden) was put on the back of the truck to ensure the proper weight distribution throughout the aircraft. After loading, a GI would get in and attach the tie-down straps so the cargo would not shift in flight—a potentially fatal event. To do this loading and unloading, the air force hired thousands of Germans and DPs, men who came from all over Europe, men who had lost their homes and families during the war and had no place to go. They were grateful for the job, and they worked hard. The Germans got so good they could load and unload ten tons of cargo in ten to twelve minutes. In Berlin the German load crews had another interest. As soon as they pulled up to the plane, the first thing they did was run to the cockpit and empty the ashtrays. They would take the cigarette butts home and roll new cigarettes out of the remaining tobacco and sell them to Russian soldiers in the eastern sector of Berlin. Cigarettes were rationed in our PX to two cartons a week. Sometimes we brought one or two cartons to sell for thirty-five dollars each. The Germans still made money by selling the cigarettes one at a time.
“Tempelhof was located in the heart of Berlin, almost completely surrounded by five-story apartment buildings. There was one area where a cemetery was located between two apartment blocks, and it was over this cemetery that we made our approach, even though the buildings were only a few hundred feet apart. At times the weather was so bad, we would make the landing without ever seeing the buildings on either side. I can’t say enough about the GCA radar operators, who were really fantastic in guiding us in safely every time. Later in 1949 the runway we were using required extensive repairs. We had to land on a runway beside the first one. This meant we had to come in over the top of one of the apartment buildings and then practically dive toward the end of the runway. To help us see the top of the building at night or in bad weather, strobe lights were installed on the roof. This was the first time flashing strobe lights were used to guide airplanes. After every trip we had to fill out a questionnaire asking us how we liked the lights, how effective they were, and if they blinded us. The lights were a great help. Today strobe lights are used on the approaches at nearly every major airport in the country. It began in Berlin.
C-54 being unloaded at Tempelhof, 1949. The large tail number was key to airtraffic control into and out of Berlin. M. Balfe.
“The pressure to keep flying was unbelievable, but I guess it was necessary to accomplish what had to be done. On one flight I lost an engine. It stopped dead and I had to feather the propeller to keep it from windmilling and continue the rest of the flight on three engines. The C-54 was a great airplane and flew well on three engines with a full load. I landed at Tempelhof and naturally assumed I would have to stay there until the engine was fixed. While the aircraft was being unloaded, the operations officer drove up in a jeep and asked, ‘Do you want to stay here or fly back to Wiesbaden?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but quickly added, ‘If you stay, it will probably take several days to get the parts flown in.’ I looked at the copilot and flight engineer, and we agreed we didn’t want to stay at Tempelhof. They cleared us to take off on three engines, over the five-story apartment houses, over the cemetery.
“Most of our loads to Berlin were made up of milk or other foods, but sometimes we had unusual cargo. On one trip I had a load of wine for the French garrison. When it was unloaded, a French officer checked the load. He became disturbed when he discovered one of the cases had been opened and three bottles of wine were missing. He didn’t want to leave the plane until he found the missing bottles. I told him I had no idea where they were and that he would either have to leave the plane or ride back to Wiesbaden with us. He finally did get off the plane, but as I taxied to the runway, I could still see him waving his arms and shouting at me. When we arrived back at Wiesbaden, to our amazement we found three bottles of French wine under my seat.
“As spring arrived and the German weather improved, things eased up considerably. We were no longer required to fly seven days a week, and we got a little time off. By that time even the Russians had to admit the airlift was a success. We had accomplished the impossible. Over two million people had been supplied by air through a hard German winter. The West Berliners even started to do some manufacturing, and we carried some of their goods out on our return trips. In July 1949 my tour was up, and I was given orders to return to the States. I was
assigned to Carswell AFB at Fort Worth, Texas, to fly B-36 bombers. When the Korean War ended in 1953, the military again had a sharp downsizing, and most of the reserve officers like myself called up for the Berlin Airlift and Korea were released from active duty. I was one of them. I reenlisted in the air force and spent the rest of my career as an enlisted man. Unfortunately, this ended my flying career, since enlisted men were no longer allowed to fly as pilots.” When Len Sweet finally retired he chose not the sun of California, Florida, or Nevada but rather the area where he was born and raised. “It has taken me a while,” he wrote, “but I have finally come home and am getting settled up here in New Hampshire.”
First Lieutenant Marshall M. Balfe
Air Medal
Born in Newburgh, New York, in 1921, Marshall confessed to being interested in airplanes since he was a small boy. “I always wanted to fly. I built model airplanes, rubber-band powered, until I left high school. I was a member of the Model Airplane Club. I read constantly about the great fighter pilots of the First World War. I knew the names of all the famous pilots in the Allied air services and the German pilots, as well as the names of most of the airplanes used by both sides. Before World War II broke out, I got involved in the Civilian Pilot Training Program. I went to night school to learn the things I would need to get a private pilot certificate. There were fifty-two people in the class, some of them high school teachers. The first ten with the highest grades were to get a scholarship to take flying lessons in a light plane. I came in number ten. I was the first in my class to solo.
“In 1942 I was accepted into aviation cadet training. About three hundred of us cadets started the course, and about one hundred finished. We trained in BT-13 and BT-15 aircraft, which we called vibrators. When we stalled the aircraft and went into a spin, the engine cowling would rattle loudly. The entire aircraft seemed to make noises as if it was coming apart. There was a delay in my finishing the course because I had to get my teeth repaired before the army would commission me. In February 1944 I finally received my wings as a fighter pilot and was commissioned a second lieutenant. I was twenty-three years old. Upon graduation I was assigned to Shaw Field near Sumter, South Carolina, as a flight instructor. We flew AT-6 advanced trainers. During the year I instructed at Shaw, fifty flight instructors were killed in accidents, and each instructor had a student in the plane with him. I had graduated as a fighter pilot. I had no trouble. I was declared surplus in 1945 along with many other pilots and separated from the Army Air Force.
“In 1948 I asked to be recalled to active duty. I missed being around airplanes. I reported to Great Falls, Montana, on December 24, 1948, for C-54 training. We didn’t do any training until January 1, 1949. After two months of training, I joined the Berlin Airlift at Rhein-Main and flew from there to Tempelhof Airport in Berlin until September 1949. My cargo was coal, except for one load—ten tons of chocolate bars. The inside of the plane looked like a coal mine. The coal was moved in barracks bags, ten tons, 120 pounds per bag. The bags were stacked on the floor the length of the airplane and tied down with rope. There was a narrow lane along the left side of the plane so we could get to the cockpit. Coal dust lay on the seats and covered our flight suits. We flew night and day, on holidays and weekends. The planes never stopped flying except for maintenance. After twelve hours on duty, we were relieved to get some rest. Normally, if all went well, we could make two round-trips in a twelve-hour period. From Frankfurt to Berlin usually took one hour and forty-five minutes with an airspeed of 170 knots.
“Russian fighter planes flew around Berlin, but they didn’t come near us. We heard rumors that during bad weather the Russians would release balloons on a long cable in hopes one of our planes would snag the cable and crash. It was only a rumor. My flights were mostly routine. Once in a while I would have to feather a propeller because of engine trouble, but that was not too serious. Nearly everyone experienced that more than once. When there was a serious problem, though, it usually happened unannounced and with catastrophic speed. One of our C-54s flared out at the end of the Tempelhof runway to land; at that instant a section of wing outboard of the engines broke off upward. The plane turned upside down, landing on its top, and skidded down the runway to a stop. The three crew members were seen to exit the plane at high speed.
“I recall one of our C-54 pilots who upon landing thought he had damaged the landing gear. He never stopped rolling and took off again to return to Frankfurt. The procedure at the time was one approach, land. Missed approach, go back to where you came from. He got rid of his load of coal on the way to lighten the aircraft. The flight engineer and the copilot, a small fellow, went back and removed the escape hatch over the wing. The hatch was about three feet square. The two men picked up the sacks of coal and threw them out the hatch one at a time. They threw the whole ten tons of coal out over eastern Germany. The copilot suffered a strained back. When the plane landed, it was discovered the landing gear was fine.
“It was our custom during landing to place a Coke bottle upside down on the glare shield over the instrument panel. If the Coke bottle fell over on touchdown, the pilot making the landing had to buy lunch for the other two crew members at the mobile snack truck. The number of times the bottle fell over was surprisingly small. Tempelhof Airport was ringed with five-story apartment buildings. The airport runways could not be extended. They were at their maximum length of five thousand feet. We had to make sure we landed on the end or close to the end of the runway to be able to stop.
“Flying the airlift was a job I was assigned to do, and I did my best to do it right. As for the German people, I felt they were victims of Hitler and his gang and suffered a lot during the war. I liked Germany.
“After the airlift I was assigned to an air weather squadron at Hickam Field, Hawaii, flying B-29 weather reconnaissance aircraft. The assignment sounded like paradise. It wasn’t. My squadron was sent to Kwajalein Island, one of the islands in the Marshall group, to participate in atomic bomb testing. I was there for six months. Twelve B-29s and one C-54. I saw two atomic bombs explode. My job was to pick up airborne samples of the bomb debris after each detonation. A large scoop had been installed on the rear top of my aircraft’s fuselage, and the hot stuff was piped to large holding tanks in the bomb bay. We flew several times in and out of the radioactive cloud to gather sufficient samples of the explosion. This was Operation Ivy in 1952. I left the air force in 1953 and then went to work for the FAA as a flight examiner at what is now Bradley Airport near Hartford, Connecticut.” Marshall Balfe, now retired, resides in Gualala, California.
Colonel David M. Taylor’s experience flying into and out of Tempelhof echoes Lieutenant Balfe’s contention that Tempelhof could be a difficult place to land: “I started flying into Tempelhof in January 1949. Since I didn’t have my family along, I wanted to fly as much as possible. I flew about 132 missions, probably more. I didn’t keep a log. The weather was lousy much of the time, but since we flew strictly instruments, and we had good GCA, it didn’t really interfere too much with our operations. I remember one particularly foggy day sitting at the end of the runway at Tempelhof waiting for clearance to take off. A C-54 broke out of the fog just before touchdown. He flared late and touched down hard. As the gear collapsed and the aircraft hit the runway, the wings came off. The fuselage continued to shoot down the runway, heading for the GCA shack. The GCA crew immediately abandoned their perilous position and watched as the fuselage of the C-54 stopped just short of impacting their shack. No one on board the aircraft was hurt. I carried a movie camera with me. When I saw the plane was in trouble, I filmed the crash. Only minutes after the crash, I took off from Tempelhof for Rhein-Main. The runway had no debris on it and was declared open. The airlift didn’t stop for anything, not even for a crashed airplane.”
C-54 wreckage off the end of the Fassberg runway, 1949. One pilot died in the accident. W. Samuel.
Colonel Harold R. Austin
Born on a farm near Sweetwater, Oklahoma, and rai
sed in Brownfield, Texas, thirty-five miles south of Lubbock, Hal Austin was fascinated by airplanes as long as he could remember. On the rare occasions when an airplane passed overhead, he would run out of the house to watch until the plane passed from sight. On a warm summer day in 1934, at the age of ten, his uncle came by and drove him to the edge of town, where a group of barnstormers had landed their biplanes on a farmer’s meadow. They were giving fifteen-minute rides to anyone who could come up with five dollars. “Five dollars was a lot of money then,” Hal recalled. “I didn’t have five dollars and was content to watch them perform their tight turns, dangerous looking loops, and come skimming low and fast across the ground. I walked around each plane and touched it gently as if it had a soul. Then, totally unexpected, my uncle bought me a five-dollar ride. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. After that ride I dreamed of flying airplanes someday. It changed my life.”
In 1943, at the age of nineteen, when the Eighth Air Force experienced terrible losses over Europe, the aviation cadet program was opened to teens with only a high school education. When Hal learned of that opportunity, he immediately joined the Army Air Force. In April 1945, after passing through a number of training bases, he received his pilot wings and a commission as second lieutenant. By then the war was nearly over in Europe, and after the Japanese surrendered later that year, Hal was declared surplus, along with many other young pilots, and released. “To make a living, I accepted a post office job in a small town in New Mexico, Deming. My mail route proved to be less of a challenge than I expected. I really missed flying. One day in January 1947 I stepped into the office of the local air force recruiter and volunteered to return to active duty in any capacity. I was offered a position at Luke Field in Arizona as a tower operator with the rank of master sergeant. As a tower operator I would control the takeoff and landing of aircraft. I took the job.”
I Always Wanted to Fly Page 4
