have been back in the United States blowing bubbles in the bathtub, for nothing came over Kunming or even near it. Damn it to hell. Stuck here. Our First Pursuit seemed to be worse than second-best, maybe third-best.
Many of the Hell’s Angels were back by this time, telling us of the scares, the thrills, and their victories. And while we were listening to these boys, we got all the glowing reports from Jack Newkirk to top it off.
But these feelings didn’t last for long. Two weeks, perhaps, at the outside. Then Sandell was called to send our old Adam and Eve pilot to help Newkirk. What a moment! I couldn’t seem to swallow, now that the time was here. A hard lump stuck in my throat, lasting until the following morning, until after I started my P-40 rolling down the dirt runway.
----
7
----
Rangoon-bound at last. It exhilarated me. My poise had returned once again, and the hard lump that had been lodged in my throat was gone. Perhaps the relief I possessed when flying came from feeling inadequate while on the ground. I don’t know.
Our First Pursuit had been divided into two groups of ten, because our P-40s would be low on gas when we arrived at Rangoon, and we weren’t putting all our eggs in one basket. Our two groups were paced twenty minutes apart, for we had planned to have the last off to arrive on the button at dusk. Getting the other half of our squadron there fell upon my back, as Sandell was miles ahead out of sight. Thought of seeing the ground crew, and the few of the staff who had waved farewell as we had taken off, came through my mind. On most of them I had interpreted this wave to mean: “I hope you get back alive.” I assumed that a few were thinking: “I hope you never get back.” But to hell with them. To hell with them all.
However, my only purpose, after delaying twenty minutes, was to get the other half of the squadron to Rangoon. I was fully aware that I had to plan to the minute my navigation and the amount of time refueling in Lashio, in order to arrive at Rangoon just before dusk. Not after dusk. In the lower latitudes there is no such thing as twilight. As the sun sets, you get the impression that someone has suddenly put a bucket over it.
One factor is definitely in the favor of inexperienced navigators out there, same as on the east coast of the United States, where I had done most of my flying. The magnetic-compass variation is zero degrees, thank God. Anyway, we eased up on Mingaladon Field, Rangoon, just before dusk, February 2, 1942.
After landing we refueled and dispersed our aircraft as usual. It was too dark after landing to do much sight-seeing about the field; until retiring we spent most of the night in the RAF officers’ mess, there on the field. We drank with them, RAF and AVG alike. We coaxed all the information we could out of the pilots who had seen action, anything pertaining to the performances of Japanese aircraft we would be up against. As we talked and drank, this information became all the more important, for the ceilings and walls around us in this mess bore mute evidence that this was no game. The Nips were playing for keeps. Although this mess had been spared by the bombs, it was perforated by machine-gun fire. One even had to watch his elbows upon the bar, or he was apt to pick up splinters.
When I inquired as to how the alerts were announced, some AVG pilot facetiously said: “Long before the RAF gets around to announcing the alert, you will see two Brewsters take off in a westerly direction, regardless of the wind sock. That’s the signal.”
The Japanese were flying in from the east. And deep down in my heart I couldn’t blame the two English pilots of the Brewsters that remained, considering that this craft had already proved its inadequacy. The Brewster fighter was a United States product that had been lend-leased to England, and it turned out to be a perfect dud in combat. It is not unusual for one aircraft to perform better than design while
Many of the Hell’s Angels were back by this time, telling us of the scares, the thrills, and their victories. And while we were listening to these boys, we got all the glowing reports from Jack Newkirk to top it off.
But these feelings didn’t last for long. Two weeks, perhaps, at the outside. Then Sandell was called to send our old Adam and Eve pilot to help Newkirk. What a moment! I couldn’t seem to swallow, now that the time was here. A hard lump stuck in my throat, lasting until the following morning, until after I started my P-40 rolling down the dirt runway.
----
7
----
Rangoon-bound at last. It exhilarated me. My poise had returned once again, and the hard lump that had been lodged in my throat was gone. Perhaps the relief I possessed when flying came from feeling inadequate while on the ground. I don’t know.
Our First Pursuit had been divided into two groups of ten, because our P-40s would be low on gas when we arrived at Rangoon, and we weren’t putting all our eggs in one basket. Our two groups were paced twenty minutes apart, for we had planned to have the last off to arrive on the button at dusk. Getting the other half of our squadron there fell upon my back, as Sandell was miles ahead out of sight. Thought of seeing the ground crew, and the few of the staff who had waved farewell as we had taken off, came through my mind. On most of them I had interpreted this wave to mean: “I hope you get back alive.” I assumed that a few were thinking: “I hope you never get back.” But to hell with them. To hell with them all.
However, my only purpose, after delaying twenty minutes, was to get the other half of the squadron to Rangoon. I was fully aware that I had to plan to the minute my navigation and the amount of time refueling in Lashio, in order to arrive at Rangoon just before dusk. Not after dusk. In the lower latitudes there is no such thing as twilight. As the sun sets, you get the impression that someone has suddenly put a bucket over it.
One factor is definitely in the favor of inexperienced navigators out there, same as on the east coast of the United States, where I had done most of my flying. The magnetic-compass variation is zero degrees, thank God. Anyway, we eased up on Mingaladon Field, Rangoon, just before dusk, February 2, 1942.
After landing we refueled and dispersed our aircraft as usual. It was too dark after landing to do much sight-seeing about the field; until retiring we spent most of the night in the RAF officers’ mess, there on the field. We drank with them, RAF and AVG alike. We coaxed all the information we could out of the pilots who had seen action, anything pertaining to the performances of Japanese aircraft we would be up against. As we talked and drank, this information became all the more important, for the ceilings and walls around us in this mess bore mute evidence that this was no game. The Nips were playing for keeps. Although this mess had been spared by the bombs, it was perforated by machine-gun fire. One even had to watch his elbows upon the bar, or he was apt to pick up splinters.
When I inquired as to how the alerts were announced, some AVG pilot facetiously said: “Long before the RAF gets around to announcing the alert, you will see two Brewsters take off in a westerly direction, regardless of the wind sock. That’s the signal.”
The Japanese were flying in from the east. And deep down in my heart I couldn’t blame the two English pilots of the Brewsters that remained, considering that this craft had already proved its inadequacy. The Brewster fighter was a United States product that had been lend-leased to England, and it turned out to be a perfect dud in combat. It is not unusual for one aircraft to perform better than design while
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