Ron had met some of the new pilots, even gotten to know a few of them, their life stories, where they were from, and their women. But tonight was not a night for socializing. He put the friendly patter behind him, and climbed into his bunk. His tired body sank quickly into sleep but his mind kept on going, counting every tick of the clock until the morning would arrive.
Chapter Twelve
The rustling of bodies getting ready for work woke Ron up from his stupor. He had wanted to sleep lightly lest his tired body take over and cause him to sleep through his 0600 appointment. However, he had slept longer than he wanted and left himself just enough time to shave, get changed, and head over to the Operations Center. The final group of pilots entered the room and he joined them just as the door was closing. Standing in the back of the room he peered over and around the other pilots straining to see the Pilot Status Board which hung in the front of the room between the Aircraft Status Board and the flight headings for the next scheduled flight.
A Captain, the Assistant Operations Officer, began his briefing by identifying the aircraft which would be used for the morning’s delivery. Each aircraft tail number was read out loud and its condition stated as green, yellow, or red. If green, the aircraft was ready to go, having been loaded during the night and waiting for its crew. If yellow, the aircraft was scheduled to go, but was not yet ready for some reason; usually because there was a problem with the loading of the supplies and extra time was needed. If red, the aircraft was not available due to routine maintenance or a maintenance problem which had cropped up and needed fixing before the plane could fly. Ron’s plane tail number was matched with a red sticker indicating that his plane would not be used today. That was a good sign.
While the Captain was talking, the Operations Sergeant would update the flight boards as new information became available. In just the short time that the Captain went over the weather report and the routes to Berlin, several more aircraft had moved from yellow to green. More planes for more supplies.
But Ron’s interest lay elsewhere. The Pilot Status Board drew all his attention. All the names of the pilots and co-pilots scheduled to fly that day were neatly written in chalk on the board. Beside each name, like on the Aircraft Status Board, was a colored sticker. The same system as used on the Aircraft Status Board was used for the pilot’s status: red, green, and yellow. Ron glared intently at the Pilot Board, his mind seeking to force nothing but green on the board. And in all cases but one, the stickers were green. Ron’s heart froze as he saw the Operations Sergeant change one sticker from green to yellow….Tom Burgess.
“But,” he thought, “I saw Tom get up this morning and head out before I did.” He looked around to find him, but with so many people in the room, it was impossible to see them all. He lowered his head, clenched his lips, and swore under his breath.
“Damn,” he said.
A breath of chilly morning air entered the room causing everyone to turn and see what had caused the sudden change in temperature. Tom Burgess had entered the room and was making his way to the Operations Officer, waving a piece of paper in front of him. He handed it to the Major and turned, seeing his co-pilot who waved and directed him over to the corner where he stood.
The Major read the paper, called the Sergeant over and handed it to him. The Sergeant looked at the paper, moved to the Pilot Status Board and removed the yellow sticker next to Tom Burgess’s name. He replaced it with a green sticker and a sigh involuntarily escaped from Ron’s lips. It must have been louder than he thought as several friends who knew he was looking for the day off, looked at Ron and chuckled.
He looked at them with a smile in his eyes, raised both his arms as to say “Whatever” and slowly made his way out of the Operations Center to find a hot cup of coffee. He would have a little breakfast, and then get with the Major to get the jeep. His morning was looking pretty good so far, but he still wondered what would lie ahead of him at the village. But first things first. The coffee smelled real good.
The ride to the village seemed to take forever. The chilly morning air seemed to whip across his face despite the presence of a windshield and canvas top and sides. Jeeps were not made to be very protective from the climate. They were basic transportation, requiring little maintenance and designed to go almost anywhere. And they fulfilled their function very well. But they didn't afford any forms of luxury. In fact, they did not even have a key. There was only an ignition switch which you turned on and then stepped on the starter switch which caused the engine to turn over. Since anyone could get in and start one up, security was maintained by a length of heavy chain and a padlock. The chain did not stop the engine from being started, but it was thread through the steering wheel and the driver’s seat in such a manner as to restrict the steering wheel’s turning. The result, a moving jeep which could not be steered. As such, more of a liability than an asset and thus usually left alone.
As Ron entered the village which he had left over three months ago, he noticed that several houses had been boarded up and appeared to be vacant. Turning the corner onto the street that the zum Rose stood, he noticed that the gasthaus was, itself, boarded up. A note on a thick piece of paper carelessly hung from the boarded entrance. Words in German took up the space on the paper.
Ron stopped the jeep, put it in neutral and set the parking brake. He got out of the vehicle and walked over to the now boarded entrance and tried to read the words on the sign to no avail. Whatever little German he had learned had flitted away over the past three months and he was at a loss. He pulled the note off the boards, climbed into the jeep, and slowly drove to his old room, hoping Frau Schlegel would be there. To his delight, there were no boards across the front door and a tiny light escaped from the front window through the wooden curtains.
He softly knocked on the front door and breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the inner locks being opened. The door edged open a fraction, and Ron could see the familiar eyes of Frau Schlegel. She immediately recognized him and gleefully opened the door and welcomed him inside and led him to the parlor. She sat and waited for him to speak.
“Frau Schlegel, how are you?” he asked.
She nodded her head. “Gut,” she said. “A little…,” she paused looking for the right English word. “Scared? Frightened,” she said with a question in her voice.
Ron nodded his head in understanding. Having just escaped from a long war, much of the German populace was afraid that the situation with the Berlin airlift was just a prelude to another war, this one between Russia and the United States but fought on German territory. Uncertain where it was heading, they cautiously lived each day in the hopes of seeing the next. It was a scary time in Germany and Frau Schlegel was typical of the population living in it.
Ron reached into his overcoat and pulled out the sign taken from zum Rose. Frau Schlegel recognized it immediately and began to talk excitedly about its contents. Ron had to slow her down so that he could understand what she was saying. Even speaking slowly, he still had trouble understanding all she was saying.
Frau Schlegel slowly composed herself and began to explain to Ron that Herr Kurtz and his daughter, Ingrid had left the village. Like many Germans, herself included, Herr Kurtz was afraid that the situation between the two super powers would further disintegrate, resulting in another war. He wanted to be out of the middle of it, so he closed his restaurant and, with his daughter, moved to stay with some friends on the French border. He had told Frau Schlegel that he would return when things eased up a bit and there was less chance of a war.
Ron remembered his discussions with Herr Kurtz about his injury in World War I, the death of his wife, Ingrid’s mother, and the going through of a second war. He remembered the elder saying that he was not about to be in the middle of a third one. He had done his duty, felt his pain, and would move with his daughter rather than taking a chance of being caught in the middle of another conflict. Fearing that was the case, he had escaped to what he thought was a safer place and had ta
ken his daughter with him.
Tears welled up in Ron’s eyes as he thought about never seeing Ingrid again.
Frau Schlegel leaned over and patted his arm, knowing what he was thinking. She reached into her pocket and pushed a bundle of paper into his hand.
“Ingrid,” she whispered.
Chapter Thirteen
My Dearest Ron,
If you get this, then you know that my father and I have moved away and are staying with some friends near the French border. The stress and strain on my father as a result of the recent conflict between the United States and Russia was too much. He was constantly staring out the windows and mumbling of tanks and soldiers coming. Villagers stopped coming to the restaurant because of that and he was becoming the village joke. I could not bear to see him like that. When he suggested that we moved further west for a while, I knew that I had to do that, for his health, both mentally and physically.
I gave Frau Schlegel several notes to give to you before we left, in case you came back to your room to get some things. However, I guess that never happened. When I gave her this note, she still had the other three in her apron pocket. I asked her to throw them away as this is the only important one now.
Dear Ron, I have missed you and missed being with you. You broke through my walls, opened my eyes to what life has to offer, and made me understand that if I want to get anything out of this life, I have to live it, not just live in it. Who I am is as much about you as it is about me. You have taught me how to love, how to experience life and learn from that experience. You have taught me how not to be afraid, to look each situation straight ahead, and do what I think is right. You have taught me that strength is not muscle, but determination; not resentfulness, but resolve; not religion, but faith; not lust, but love. What strength I have has been nurtured by you, to help make me what I am today.
Ron, I love you. I knew that the evening you walked into the gasthaus but was afraid to admit it. That is, until that evening we returned from the wine fest. Having spent all day with you was like spending the day in your soul and seeing what made you Ron. Not Ronald, not Ronnie, but Ron. And it thrilled me to no end.
Ron, I don’t know when we will see each other again, or if we will. I want the former and fear the latter. But the future doesn’t open up for me, and I don’t know what will happen. I do know that when this is over, we will return to the village and re-open the gasthaus and I will search the whole country for you. I pray to God that I will find you!
I have put in this note a picture of us taken during one of our trips. I hope you like it. I have a copy also and will hold onto it forever. If nothing else, I will cherish this pictures of the two of us, as my first love, and the one that taught me that love is not changing oneself to please the other, but rather giving of oneself as is, and accepting the other person for what they are. That is the only way I can love.
Ron, please take care of yourself. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, that we will rejoin our lives and live them together as long as possible. But if that is not to be, then I say “Thank You” for giving me mine, for loving me as I am, and for teaching me that love and life may be one and the same.
Love,
Ingrid.
Chapter Fourteen
The drive back to the airbase was automatic. His mind raced one way, then another, then another until, if one could look inside it, one would see a ball of twine with strands running each and every way, a different strand for each thought. The only intrusion to this mental abyss was the ragged hum of the tires on the cobblestones, their soulful sound a dirge, a fitting accompaniment to the deep morass through which his mind was struggling to see, to understand, and finally, to escape.
The escape came in the form of an MP checking identification cards at the airbase gate. He showed his and was quickly waved through, his thoughts slowly returning to the task at hand but his memory firmly ensconced within the words and picture which filled his jacket pocket.
His world was waiting outside those gates and he so wanted to return to it.
Chapter Fifteen
The monthly calendar had turned six more pages, and the green coat worn by the German countryside had been replaced with a white mantel of fresh snow. Six months had passed since his empty return from the village, six months of almost daily flying back and forth to Berlin. While each flight seemed to grow longer and longer, the cumulative effect of the airlift seemed to have accelerated the passage of time. No longer did he fly the C-47. It had been replaced by the larger and faster C-54, a cargo plane capable of carrying more tonnage at a faster rate, thus increasing the flow of needed supplies into the war-torn city.
The C-54 was a four engine aircraft powered by Pratt and Whitney R-2000-7 engines with 1350 horsepower each. While its maximum speed was only 35 miles per hour faster than the C-4 and its ceiling actually less than the C-47, its payload was far greater. The C-47 had a payload of about 5000 pounds. The C-54, known as the “Skymaster” could carry almost 20,000 pounds of cargo, making it 4 times as efficient with no loss in speed and a 400 mile advantage in range. Thus it could carry more and fly further between refueling operations adding considerably to the capability of the air operations.
British and French planes now flew alongside the American's and a new airfield in the French sector of Berlin called Tegel was opened to add to the receiving capability in Berlin The other airports were insufficient to sustain the hundreds of flights arriving daily with the much-needed supplies for the city residents. Besides food stuff, coal was the most needed commodity during this time of the year. The German winter could be brutal, the cold wind sweeping down from the Russian steppes, carrying wet snow and dumping it on the impoverished city. Without the coal, the city would cease to function and its residents would be forced to scrounge the countryside for anything that would burn. Before the arrival of the early shipments of coal, complete buildings in the evening would be missing sections in the morning as the shivering population sought to keep itself warm. The continuous arrival of the coal seemed to stop that, though occasionally a building would collapse and the local populace would swarm over it like ants at a picnic, looking for anything that could provide the needed warmth.
Ron’s C-54 was approaching his second landing of the day into Templehof. This airfield had been the main airfield in Berlin, and almost reduced to ruins during the bombing runs into the city. Upon its capture, troops had found beneath its runways an aircraft factory, completely capable of building fighter planes for the Luftwaffe. These fighter planes were discovered standing in various stages of completion, lined up like the soldiers they were destined to become. Some were mere shells of their intended selves, other complete with wings and armament, lacking only the ammunition to begin their deadly task. An elevator leading to one of the hangers above the ground, allowed the completed plane to reach the surface of the airfield and join the war. The factory was no longer in operation, rather it lay there as a grim reminder of the inventiveness of the Nazi regime and its unfulfilled thirst for conquest in the name of the German people, the same ones that were now being fed and warmed by the Third Reich’s sworn enemies.
The radio cackled as the tower sought to make some sense of the swarming planes and carefully guide them to a safe landing.
“C827, come to heading 060,” Ron heard through his earphones.
“Roger,” he replied, “turning to heading 060.”
The huge cargo plane slowly turned to the right, its left wing reaching for the sky while the right wing pointed to the ground below. Ron could see two planes in front of him, both on the same heading, the furthest being two miles in front and the second, half that distance. The lead plane already had his landing gear down and was on final approach. The one closest to Ron had opened his landing gear doors and he could see the black wheels slowly emerge from their den, as though stretching to wake up and move on.
It always amazed Ron landing at Templehof. The whole thrust of the operation was to unload the cargo as fas
t as possible and head back for more. Little time was wasted in taxiing upon landing, and while the plane was slowed down upon touchdown, it was quickly led by a “follow me” vehicle to the nearest unloading stations. These vehicles were waiting near the end of the runway, somewhat akin to the racetrack horses waiting for the thoroughbreds to enter the track so they can lead them in their warm-up. The vehicles, and there were usually 8 or 10 of them, each with at least two airmen, sometimes three, maneuvered in front of the still moving planes and guided them to their destination where troops stood ready to unload their valuable cargo and speed it into the city. Upon completion, the vehicle led the plane back to the cue of others waiting to take off, then sped back to the pick-up area for the next one. Unless there was a problem, the planes rarely even turned off their engines; that was how fast the unloading went.
Ron judged the distance to the runway, turned on the landing lights and flipped the landing gear switch to set up for the landing. He heard the flaps open, and the gears begin to lower the wheels into a locked position. The right gear locked into position indicated by a green light on the console, but the left gear remained red.
“Damn,” he said. “Mac, check the left gear will you?”
The German Triangle Page 8