Pakeha - Column for 6/9

Living History

I had a date with history last weekend and I do mean living, breathing, snorting, roaring history.

I noticed in the local paper that the Collings Foundation had flown into town with its B-17G and B-24. I took this as an omen, because I had just mentioned to a friend that I hadn't seen this same pair of old birds for some time.

For the past 10 years I watched and listened in ecstasy as these gracefully ungainly old pals flew overhead. My first time, I was lying on my bed in Orange County reading or doing my homework or something. Like Radar on M*A*S*H, my antennae quivered with the deep, throaty vibrations of something more than a Cesna on its way. See, we lived near the final approach of John Wayne Airport. The airliner noise never became an issue, but every once in a while we'd have something special fly over, like a F4-U Corsair or a P-38. This day, I hear round engines, lots of them. At the first hint, I bounded out of bed and sprinted out to the backyard just in time to have a B-17 pass over. I went out of my mind, jumping and shouting. Then a B-24 followed and I went totally nuts. Then I noticed all the guests across the fence at my neighbor's dinner party. Then I noticed that I had nothing on but my underwear. Some people say it sounds like a nightmare. To me, it was like a dream.

So I finally had my opportunity to see these old gals up close. Seven dollars would get me up and personal. In the article, I noticed that $350 could get you a half hour ride in one of the planes. I didn't even begin to hope. Flying in a WWII bomber was an impossible, frivolous indulgence.

Sunday rolls along and I spend too much time running outside my in-laws house to catch glimpses of the aircraft. My wife asks me "So, do you want to go for a ride?"

Ride? In the planes? I answered reflexively, but it still wasn't real. It didn't register as reality even as I handed over my credit card. I started to believe after I got my stick-on badge reading "B-17 #3" meaning I was on the third flight of the afternoon and the last flight of the day.

I spent the hours leading up to the flight in a happy delirium, watching both aircraft start their engines, taxi, take off, and land. Watching a B-24 and B-17 run up side-by-side on the tarmac nearly overwhelmed me.

Then it was my time to fly. After the first flight, they were "hot loading" the aircraft, saving time by not bothering to shut the engines down while taking on passengers. We walked up to the Fortress through the prop wash of the idling engines, our noses full of oil smoke.

We entered through the waist hatch just forward of the starboard stabilizer. Entry required a bit more acrobatic skill than I expected, but after a lift and swing I was inside. Inside! I'd been inside a B-17 before at Castle Air Force Museum in Atwater, CA near Merced, but that bomber was a static display, a fascinating and melancholy artifact.

Not a hint of melancholy could be found among the ten other guys I was riding with. I sat near the port waist-gunner's position. Soon we were taxiing, listening to the groan of the brakes and the pilot steered the old beast. We all sat in lap harnesses far below any Plexiglas, so we couldn't see a thing.

Then the engines began to really roar, louder, and louder, and louder. The tail lifted and then we were airborne. The landing gears clunked into place as ten men, ranging in age from late twenties to middle seventies, all instantly transformed into little boys crawling around the bomber, smiles plastered on their faces.

Nearly everyone immediately shot forward towards the nose. I hung out in the waist, watching the ground fly by from the gunners' positions. I was torn between micro and macro focus. I would spend a frantic moment scrutinizing the ribs and spars, the skeleton of the plane, or watching the control cables slide overhead. Then I would scramble to a port to catch the horizon over the wing, Studebaker-built Wright R-1820-97 engines turning away. I watched the ground pass underneath through the tail-wheel well.

I moved into the radio compartment. Our guide had warned us during orientation that the hatch over the compartment had been removed. He told us to remember that it would be like a 160 mph convertible. He didn't want to lose any more cameras, hats, glasses, or toupees. It was a little exhilarating to look up and see blue sky, then stand up and look out at the tail and horizon with nothing between you and that 160 mph slipstream.

When I finally made my way forward, I entered the navigator's and bombardier's space just in time for the pilot to start some rather gnarly banks. What looks so graceful from the ground is a stuck-to-the-side-of-the-fuselage roller coaster ride and frantic search for someplace to brace yourself.

The 30 minute flight was perfect. Any shorter and I would've felt cheated. Any longer and I would've been exhausted. As it was, I had time to sit and contemplate. Some of the spaces I had crawled through were pretty darned tight. I can't imagine trying to get out of the plane in a hurry, possibly tumbling and burning. As I looked around me, I felt exposed. Aluminum and Plexiglas don't do much to slow down bullets or shrapnel. I had to say a prayer of thanks to all the men and women who designed, built, maintained, fought in, and died in these machines.

Pakeha

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