as powder that a cartoon showed a stork flying into Berlin carrying a diapered bundle labeled POWDEREDBABY.
The most crucial advances were key logistical and technical innovations introduced by General William H. Tunner, a veteran of the “Hump” who arrived in July to become commander of the Combined Airlift Task Force. Tunner's notion of an airlift sounded like something out of a primer by Henry Ford: “There is no frenzy, no flap, just the inexorable process of getting the job done. In a successful airlift, you don't see planes parked all over the place. They're either in the air, on loading or unloading ramps, or being worked on.” Tunner quickly imposed a rigid routine whereby planes were dispatched according to type, airspeed, and cargo loads, which avoided bunching up en route or on the ground. Pre-established flight plans put an end to races through the corridors. Improvements in air traffic control around Berlin made it possible to bring in planes at very short intervals. A special training facility in Great Falls, Montana, prepared air and ground crews to work together efficiently in this exacting environment.
Among inhabitants of the Western sectors, improvements in the airlift did not immediately dispel widespread fears that their “outpost of freedom” would be slowly strangled to death. The first months of the blockade brought significant reductions in daily food rations, which had been meager enough to begin with. Because the Eastern sector was better supplied, West Berliners now began crossing regularly into the East to buy goods (at hugely inflated prices) or to beg handouts from Eastern friends and relatives. The Soviets tolerated such exchanges, believing they would further a material dependency on the East without substantially undercutting the blockade. They remained confident that all of Berlin would soon fall into their hands without their having to fire a shot.
By late fall 1948, however, Tunner's innovations were bearing fruit (albeit dehydrated): Berliners were not starving to death, and the local economy had not ground to a halt. The children of Berlin could take delight in occasional drops of candy attached to tiny parachutes; the kids called the planes “chocolate bombers.” Yet everyone in Berlin understandably worried that the coming months might be a very different story, for harsh weather conditions would bothincrease demand for supplies and render their delivery much more difficult. It was estimated that Berlin required a minimum of 5,650 tons of food and coal per day to survive during the winter months; in October the lift had managed 4,760, and in November 3,800—not encouraging statistics. There was another danger as well. Alarmed by the airlift's successes, the Russians were now sending signals that they might not continue to tolerate this Allied expedient. Soviet planes began staging mock air battles over Berlin, while ground batteries practiced antiaircraft drills in the northern corridor. Red fighters even buzzed Allied cargo and passenger planes. If these sorties escalated from harassment to actual shooting, the airlift might lead to war after all.
As it turned out, the Soviet interference, while dangerous and provocative, did not become more extensive; indeed, it abated somewhat with the onset of winter. As so often in the past, the Russians seemed to be counting on nasty weather to come to their aid.
The Western Allies confronted the approach of winter with a new display of commitment to Berlin. On October 22, President Truman authorized the dispatch of sixty-six more C-54s to Germany, raising the total to 225. In November the new airport at Tegel became operational, greatly increasing the city's receiving capacity. Meanwhile, advanced radar installations and improved cockpit instrumentation were making it possible for planes to fly “when birds walked,” as the pilots put it. After returning from a trip to Washington, Clay announced, “The airlift will be continued
The most crucial advances were key logistical and technical innovations introduced by General William H. Tunner, a veteran of the “Hump” who arrived in July to become commander of the Combined Airlift Task Force. Tunner's notion of an airlift sounded like something out of a primer by Henry Ford: “There is no frenzy, no flap, just the inexorable process of getting the job done. In a successful airlift, you don't see planes parked all over the place. They're either in the air, on loading or unloading ramps, or being worked on.” Tunner quickly imposed a rigid routine whereby planes were dispatched according to type, airspeed, and cargo loads, which avoided bunching up en route or on the ground. Pre-established flight plans put an end to races through the corridors. Improvements in air traffic control around Berlin made it possible to bring in planes at very short intervals. A special training facility in Great Falls, Montana, prepared air and ground crews to work together efficiently in this exacting environment.
Among inhabitants of the Western sectors, improvements in the airlift did not immediately dispel widespread fears that their “outpost of freedom” would be slowly strangled to death. The first months of the blockade brought significant reductions in daily food rations, which had been meager enough to begin with. Because the Eastern sector was better supplied, West Berliners now began crossing regularly into the East to buy goods (at hugely inflated prices) or to beg handouts from Eastern friends and relatives. The Soviets tolerated such exchanges, believing they would further a material dependency on the East without substantially undercutting the blockade. They remained confident that all of Berlin would soon fall into their hands without their having to fire a shot.
By late fall 1948, however, Tunner's innovations were bearing fruit (albeit dehydrated): Berliners were not starving to death, and the local economy had not ground to a halt. The children of Berlin could take delight in occasional drops of candy attached to tiny parachutes; the kids called the planes “chocolate bombers.” Yet everyone in Berlin understandably worried that the coming months might be a very different story, for harsh weather conditions would bothincrease demand for supplies and render their delivery much more difficult. It was estimated that Berlin required a minimum of 5,650 tons of food and coal per day to survive during the winter months; in October the lift had managed 4,760, and in November 3,800—not encouraging statistics. There was another danger as well. Alarmed by the airlift's successes, the Russians were now sending signals that they might not continue to tolerate this Allied expedient. Soviet planes began staging mock air battles over Berlin, while ground batteries practiced antiaircraft drills in the northern corridor. Red fighters even buzzed Allied cargo and passenger planes. If these sorties escalated from harassment to actual shooting, the airlift might lead to war after all.
As it turned out, the Soviet interference, while dangerous and provocative, did not become more extensive; indeed, it abated somewhat with the onset of winter. As so often in the past, the Russians seemed to be counting on nasty weather to come to their aid.
The Western Allies confronted the approach of winter with a new display of commitment to Berlin. On October 22, President Truman authorized the dispatch of sixty-six more C-54s to Germany, raising the total to 225. In November the new airport at Tegel became operational, greatly increasing the city's receiving capacity. Meanwhile, advanced radar installations and improved cockpit instrumentation were making it possible for planes to fly “when birds walked,” as the pilots put it. After returning from a trip to Washington, Clay announced, “The airlift will be continued
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