In Memory; Hillaire du Berrier, Fred Gage, Ray Hanna

The “New Guy”

Les Bradford

I had been married about two weeks when this story began. I was a USAF 2/LT right out of Aviation Cadets and single engine jet training. I had recently been assigned to the 12^th Troop Carrier Squadron of the 60^th Troop Carrier Wing at Dreux AFB in France. The base itself was brand new and the 60TCW, which had been at Rhein Main AFB in Germany, had barely completed their relocation. Originally assigned to Rhein Main, I had reassigned from there to Dreux as an “advanced party member” to help set up things for the new wing’s arrival.

For about a year prior to the wing’s moving in, I had held down three jobs at Dreux in the 7305^th Air Base Squadron……Base salvage officer, Petroleum Oils and Lubricants (POL) officer and Laundry officer. Not the kind of stuff that breeds flying heroes. But it was the kind of duty that keeps one away from flying proficiency except for the 4 desperate hours needed to collect flight pay each month. I had been logging mostly third pilot time in the only planes at the base, a single engine Otter and the well worn C-47 “Gooney Bird.” I knew almost nothing about the lumbering twin boom C-119G “Flying Boxcar” that the 60^th had. And now it was time to get checked out in that plane and learn all the little ins and outs about flying around Europe.

I wasn’t particularly happy about my assignment. I was after all, a hot jet jockey, and in some quarters we were still something of a novelty. But the skirmish in Korea was mostly settled and there was no big need for fighter pilots. I was early February in 1956 and my new German bride and I were living in a hotel in a neighboring village. I had failed miserably on my promise to have a cozy little cottage all ready for us to begin our honeymoon. My wife was not at all happy with me and began to see behind my façade of having the world at my fingertips. But she took it well and we were quite happy. Happy that is, until I returned to her that evening and said I was scheduled to go out at 05:00 hrs the next morning on a three week mission and she’d have to fend for herself speaking German in a French hotel. A hotel with a restaurant that served cheese on everything and she hated cheese. (Fret not, we celebrated our 50^th wedding anniversary on January 31, 2006. )

The flight was scheduled to stage out of Athens, Greece and fly cargo to our many bases in North Africa, and the Middle East. The mission plan was to put nearly 100 hours on the plane and then return to Dreux for a periodic inspection. The pilot was 1/Lt “Mac” McGuire who would be getting his Aircraft Commander’s check-out ride.  The Instructor pilot and Aircraft Commander was Captain John Bassett. I was to receive a route orientation and flight, and training as copilot. We also had an oldish Non Commissioned Officer (NCO) flight engineer along to take care of minor in-route maintenance, but I can’t recall his name. I do recall his facial features when he faced a stressful moment and you will soon learn why. So we were a crew of 4 and set to go out and fight the “Cold War” on that raw, dark and misty morning. I was already missing my new wife.

Capt. Bassett watched carefully as Mac, with a checklist and flashlight, made his walk-around pre flight inspection. Mac would look at this and that, maybe grunt and poke things with his hand or foot like pilots do. I noticed an engine oil leak and proudly pointed it out to the others. I was told in no uncertain terms that that was “An allowable oil leak.” I shut up and just watched from then on. But the “Allowable” part of it was etched in my mind. However, when we looked at the form 781 aircraft maintenance log, Capt. John Bassett was very concerned that we didn’t have the scheduled fuel load aboard. It was many gallons short. He talked with the engineer who skillfully blamed it on the refueling crew of which he had no part. Mac and John discussed the situation and decided with the good winds forecast, we should be able to make our first stop in Rome, Italy with no problem. Good weather was also forecast for Rome. So, no fuel truck was called, which would have delayed our scheduled takeoff time. Heaven forbid we should take off late!!

Capt. Bassett told me that I was to sit behind him at the Navigator’s station, and make position reports and take care of the flight log. Although I wasn’t that familiar with the flight log, I had worked on it some with Mac as we used the E6B calculator to work out magnetic headings, ground speeds and ETAs to the many check points. What bothered me most was having to make position reports.

My little exposure with the French and German air controllers revealed that I had a hallava time understanding their heavy accents. Most of their radio transmissions were answered by my, “Ah..say again?” And to make matters worse, they had a hellava time understanding my New England accent and they’d have to ask for a repeat transmission. Even other Americans had a hard time understanding a southeast Massachusetts “Swamp Yankee.” To us there are no “R”s in the English language. Our “R”s came out sounding like a sinus problem and we talked too fast and flat in general. We all talked as if we were being repeatedly kicked in the stomach with an occasional low blow. I dreaded the thought of making “Say again?” position reports.

We took off on time with a light load of cargo amid much vibration, loud exhaust rap, out of sync prop noise and fuselage rattle. I felt like a trapped mouse in a tin can tied to the newlywed’s bumper. Mac and John were straining to watch RPM and torque gauges. Over-boosting the two monster R-3350 compounded radial engines, each putting out 3350 turbo boosted horsepower at takeoff, was a current problem with the new G models. Heavy-handed C model pilots used to the old R-4360 engines, were over-boosting to an alarming degree. I couldn’t help thinking as I sat there, probably wide eyed in the Nav’s seat, how silly the whole operation appeared. Why should two pilots get involved in taking off one airplane? And how strange it was to see the big control column with that stupid half-wheel bobbing around, with Mac’s left hand now off the nose wheel steering handle trying to steady it. The fingers of his right hand cuddled those two throttle knobs while John’s hands were place lightly on the copilot’s throttles. I had flown in a C-119 before, but the usual overly theatric takeoff scene still amused me. In gung ho single engine jet training at Laredo AFB, Texas, they told us that multi-engine pilots were all a bunch of “Queers” and we were to avoid them at all costs. And here I was, getting trained to be a “Queer” copilot.

We leveled off at some altitude between 5,000 and 10,000 feet at a much more relaxed 2200 RPM. Mac fiddled with the props to get them all synced up nicely. I busied myself with what I would be telling Paris Control when we reached our first check point in about 15 minutes. All my transmissions would be on VHF and a radio operator had preset all the route VHF crystals before we took off. My first position report went rather well and my reporting confidence took a small leap upward. But the time we had been airborne two hours, I had made three or four brief position reports and they all seemed to be understood and accepted by Paris Control. But we were getting near the outer limits of the Paris Flight Information Region (Paris FIR) and creeping up on the Marseilles FIR. John was keeping up with out progress and called me on the interphone.

“Ah, Lt. Bradford, when we cross into another FIR, we have to give a complete position report with our route, destination, ETA and all that.”

I wondered what “All That” consisted of, but I had everything before me on the flight form 175 and figured I’d tell Marseilles “All That.” Paris cleared me to Marseilles control, and gave me the new frequency. I switched channels and keyed the hand-held mike. I said in my best English, “Mahseilles Control, Mahseilles Control, this is Aiah Foss 81 foah 9….Ovah?”

A high pitched voice came back, “Rogerrr, Rogerrr, 8149 Marseilles, go ahead.”

With Marseilles’ cue, I keyed the mike and began reading off the information Mac had written in pencil on the USAFE form 175. It began with the Aircraft Commander’s full name and rank, the pilot’s full name and rank. I included the same thumbnail bio for the flight engineer and myself. With the mike still keyed, I went on and read off word for word every little detail entered on the form. I forget now what all was entered on that long sheet of paper, but it was a lot. As I gave my lengthy report I had seen John straining to turn around in his seat and noticed Mac shaking with laughter. I suddenly sensed something was amiss while actually expecting applause for handling “All That.” I ended my report with “Ovah?

A curt “Rogerrr 8149” came from Marseilles. No mention was made to repeat anything. Some anonymous American voice came over the radio with “Jesus H Christ !”

John got on the interphone and began telling me, in a surprisingly nice way, about all the unnecessary things I had reported and how I had blocked everyone’s communications by holding the mike button and wasted everyone’s time, and on and on until I felt sick to my stomach. I really felt badly and needed what we would call today……instant rehab. I told John I was feeling very ill and asked if I could go to the cargo compartment and lie down. He agreed to that almost too quickly. I handed him the flight log and the form 175 and made my way down the short ladder to the cargo compartment. I undid some straps and lowered one of the long 4 or 5 man aluminum framed canvas seats. I took my parachute off and laid down……a broken young man with “position report” virus.

I fell asleep and must have slept soundly for an hour or so before the next startling phase of this flight began….. for me at least. It had already begun for the three remaining in the cockpit. I remember being shaken awake by the Flight Engineer and will never forget the wild eyed look on his face as he shouted to me…….

“Wake up Lieutenant, wake up and get your chute on !! We’re out of gas and lost. We probably have to bail out !!” In my sleepy state, I do recall asking him something very stupid.

“Is this normally the procedure?”

He didn’t bother to answer as he rushed back up into the cockpit. The full impact of what he had said began to take hold and I started strapping on the parachute. Any illness I may have had was long gone and I tried to recall how to jump out of an airplane, operate a parachute, hit the ground and live to tell about it. I ran up the ladder to add to the confusion. In hindsight, I should have remained in the cargo compartment by the exit door and waited for the “Jump” light. I was proving I knew little about anything we did.

When I got up to the cockpit, the engineer’s butt was in evidence as he leaned way forward over the center pedestal with his nose almost in the instruments. I’m not sure what he was doing, but more than likely trying to find another gallon of gas on some gauge. I squeezed by him, seated myself at the Nav’s station and put the headset on. What I immediately heard was an angry TWA pilot advising us, personally, to “Go out over Ostia and bail out !”I couldn’t understand the anger until later on in my tour, when I got to meet some whacky TWA pilots at hotel parties. They hated to hold over a beacon because of traffic congestion, weather, or animals on the runway. And apparently this particular pilot hated to be held up by some Air Force bunch in a flying boxcar with no idea where they were, nor much time left to find out.

I wasn’t even sure in what country we were lost as Ostia was a new name to me. I did notice that our two radio compass needles were pointing thirty degrees to each side of our nose and wavering. The radio compass was the primary flight navigational instrument in most of Europe then. TACAN and VOR were rare. As I recall, some bases in England were beginning to install them. I think the corridor into Berlin had VOR. It was a mute point as our planes weren’t equipped with either.

But if we were in the vicinity of Rome, the forecast “Good arrival” weather must have meant the miraculous end of a drought. Water beat at our windshields and the windshield wipers were losing their battle as Mac and John strained to see something like a runway. We were in and out of low scud as Mac would pull back on the column to clear another soaking wet vineyard atop some scenic hill. Trees, fields, houses and probably Fiat Topolinos raced beneath us. I don’t recall being terribly frightened, but seriously considered bailing out only 100 feet or so above ground. What had they said about low altitude bailouts in parachute training? All I could remember was it being a damn poor choice. John was talking to someone on the radio as Mac yelled out, “There’s the runway!!” I looked where he pointed and it was about an opaque mile and a half ahead at our 10:30 o’clock position.

John got clearance for a straight-in approach and landing. Mac cranked the wheel over for a classic low “S” turn onto final, and brought it in for a “Hail Mary” grease job landing on the wet runway. I have little recollection of my thoughts at touch down. Most likely my mind had gone blank with “New Guy Overload.” I must have been happy of course, but I felt like these missions, at least this one, were much too similar to our nation’s ancient airmail flights. I asked myself once again, like I had asked the Flight Engineer, “Is this normal procedure?”

Next Chapter

Two Nights in Rome