Berlin Airlift: Plus Fifty



Editors Note: This article originally ran in our sister publication,IFRmagazine in the June 1998 issue to recognize the 50th anniversary of the Berlin Airlift. With the 70th anniversary approaching, and with the passing of so many of the veterans who acted courageously to supply the citizens of Berlin, we are running it again to help keep alive the memories of what they accomplished.

June, 1948. It seems like a lifetime ago. Come tothink of it, aviation-wise, it is. By today'sstandards, the aircraft were primitive, air-traffic control procedures were archaic—sometimes non-existent—and our instrument proficiency left much to be desired, to put it generously.

I had just celebrated my 24th birthday in Athens,where I was assigned as Air Attach, when the call wentout for all pilots in the theater who were qualified in the venerable C-47 "Gooney Bird."

The Russians had just closed down the road and rail corridors into Berlin from West Germany and the U.S. proposed to support the entire city by air.

I had 3000 hours, most ofit in fighters, with 300 hours in the Gooney.Upon arrival in Weisbaden, Germany, the initial staging area, I discovered that this"qualified" me as first pilot. A single orientation ride witha young 60th Troop Carrier pilot named Frenchy Bennett and I was certified to fly theairlift. In any weather.

They assigned me a co-pilot, Captain Eddie Onze (later killed in Korea), who had never been in an aircraftwith more than one throttle. Our combined instrument proficiency, on a scale of 0 to 10, rated about 1/2 to 1.

During World War II, pilots who went through fighter school spent mostof their instrument rides doing aerobatics under the hood. This made us moderately proficientin unusual attitudes, but as for straight-and-level down the airway and approaches, we weren't so hot.

When the press and movie makers got around toglamorizing the operation in The Big Lift, most of the credit went tothe "Big Willies," the C-54s and their crews. My good friend Al Freiberger even got a speaking part in the movie, mostly on the strength of his involvement in"Operation Little Vittles," the famous candy bar drop to kids on handkerchief parachutes.

Not to detract from Al and his buddies, but when Operation Vittles started, we wereall flying old troop carrier C-47s. These shipswere war-weary in the extreme, with thousands of hours onairframes, and, to a lesser degree, engines. They had been in constant use since well before D-Day, carryingparatroops, towing gliders, hauling cargo. Some had seen service with EuropeanAir Transport Service, essentially a military-operated airline.

A word of praise for the Douglas C-47: No morereliable or forgiving aircraft has ever been built. We gotaway with youthful stupidities that would have killed usin any other airplane. I once flew a Goon from Wiesbaden toTempelhof—slowly—with a load of 12,500 pounds, two-and-half times the design payload. It didn't look thatheavy. I should have aborted the takeoff. Didn't. I shouldhave checked the weight and balance. Didn't.

Fortunately for us, Air Force maintenance crews were superb. We had little trouble with engines—let's givesome of the credit to Pratt & Whitney, too. We experienced few inflight emergencies. Radios were the toughest to maintain because of the constant damp and ever present flour andcoal dust. We flew the first six weeks of horrible weather inthose old clunkers with just one fatal accident, therebydumfounding both ourselves and the Russians.

Avionics—I use the term loosely—were another matter. All the gyro instruments were vacuum driven. Attitude and heading indicators were subject to tumbling if certain bank and pitch angles were exceeded or even if an abrupt change in attitude occurred. You could be—and we often were—reduced to flying needle, ball and ripcord. At the time, we didn't think much of it.

Comm radiosconsisted of the old four-channel push-button VHF sets left over from the war. Navigation radios were low-frequency receivers for the old four-leg radio ranges. It seems archaic now, but the most reliable nav radio we had was ADF; it was our version of GPS.

Although thunderstorms made it necessary touse ADF in the loop position to find an aural null, we flew in horrible weather with a navaid most pilots now consider little more than a glorified AM radio.

All of these limitations kept the two-man crew of a C-47 prettybusy; we did our own flying and our own navigating. Navigators would have been nothing but extra weight. Some RAFYorks carried them to operate their "Gee" radarequipment, but we had no such luxuries. Even the C-54s stopped carrying navigators; they weren't worth the payload.

Things got hectic when there was icing.Boots on the Gooney, while usually adequatefor light rime, required judgment in heavy or mixed icing. Thesame boots were installed on C-54s, but they had iteasier because they carried a flight engineer to keep an eye on things.

Did I mention that the weather was horrible? The Russians must have had excellent forecasters, for they pickedthe right time to blockade Berlin. Although the lift started during the EuropeanHigh Summer, when the weather is supposedly best, the first few weeks gave us the worst weather of the entire operation, at least for the months that I flew it.

Thunderstorms, heavy rain, icing—allwere everyday phenomena. One hundred-foot ceilings werethe norm on many days during those early weeks. Three hundred feet wasa luxury. The approach to Tempelhof was between seven-story apartment buildings 1/4-mile apart, yet we managed it day in and day out, achieving a remarkable safety record.

As the airlift evolved, so did the air traffic and routing plan. There were three 20-mile-wide corridors in and outof Berlin. The northern corridor, which ran northwest (about 300degrees) was used mostly by the British. The southern and longest corridor ran from Fulda Beacon northeast (about 45degrees) and was used exclusively by inbound U.S. aircraft.The central corridor—about 270 degrees—ran from Berlin to the Brunswick Beacon, then southwest to Fritlzar, then back to Wiesbaden. The central corridor was used solely for return flights.

Air traffic control wasn't a bit like what we're used to now, of course. There was no en route or terminal radar during the early days of the lift, although both Tempelhof and Wiesbaden had GCA radar—ground controlled approach.

Navigation was strictly dead reckoning, with what helpwe could get from ADF fixes. Fortunately, USAF andRAF weather services were excellent, so winds aloftforecasts were usually accurate.

A typical C-47 run to Tempelhof began with a climbnortheast to assigned altitude to the Fulda Beacon, an ADF fix. At this point you checked in with ATC and adjustedairspeed if necessary to maintain separation. In-trail separation at same altitudes en route was nine minutes, with 500 or 1000 feet of vertical separation.

Once into the corridor, however, you were on your own until nearBerlin, a 200-mile dead reckon leg with no intermediate fixes. Because the corridors were only 20 miles wide,in-trail separation was important to avoid collisions. (We never hadone.)

In the early weeks of the lift, we flewan inbound leg of the Tempelhof Range, but the Russianssoon jammed the frequency so that we couldn't get a cone-of-silence as the volume continued to build as we flew into EastGermany. So we flew the fix purely on the clock.

Later, they gave us an ADF fix, a "buncher beacon," at Wedding, about six miles northwest of Tempelhof. On a good day,thunderstorms permitting, you could pick it up from 20miles out. Once at Wedding, GCA vectored us onto final approach, at three-minute intervals.

Despite the flow of traffic into Tempelhof, holding patterns were used only at the western(return) end, as they would have created too muchcongestion around Berlin.

When used at Wiesbaden, theywere standard, one-minute, left-hand holding patterns,with aircraft in a stack awaiting approach clearances. There was an ADF approach forWiesbaden, plus GCA when we really needed it. By-and-large, Wiesbadenweather wasn't as bad as what we encountered at Berlin.

If there were any published minimums at Tempelhof, I've forgottenwhat they may have been. GCA—the precursor of PAR—brought us all the way inuntil we either broke out or ran out of guts.

My ownpersonal minimums were about 100 feet and 1/4 mile.

Ihave, over the years, flown a few zero-zero approaches, but only one on GCA and that was a matter of necessity.After many years and several hundred GCA approaches,in hindsight, I'd say that GCA is about as reliable as the pilot at the controls.

There's inevitably a built-in delay between thecontroller's instruction and the pilot's execution.However, at the time, most of us had absolute confidencein the Tempelhof GCA and probably pushed our minimumslower than would have been safe with the average CCA. In retrospect, if I'm going below 300 feet with less than 1/2 mile now, I prefer ILS.

We began to regard the return approach to Wiesbadenas more dangerous than Berlin. ATC was just better at Berlin.For instance, I was flying "Willie One" (firstaircraft in a westbound block from Tempelhof toWiesbaden) in the soup, with a malfunctioning transmitter.

We acknowledged instructions from ATC by clicking themic button—once for "yes," twice for "no." Wiesbaden approach cleared us to hold one minute east of theWiesbaden Beacon at 5000 feet. Click. A few minutes later I heard approach say, "Willie Six, hold one minuteeast of Wiesbaden Beacon at 5000."

I chopped the power, slammed the nose down andcaught a glimpse of Willie Six as he passed about what looked to be 20feet overhead. Just then the Wiesbaden controller gasped,"My God, I forgot Willie One!"

The controller was a good friend ofmine, but we had a few words that evening over amartini. In all fairness, at that stage, the operation was so disorganized and everyone was so overworked thatmistakes were bound to happen.

Flight crews flew around the clock, grabbing coffeeand a sandwich while aircraft were serviced and reloaded. After about 36 hours on the job, we'd catch 12 hourssleep, hopefully a solid meal and start over. Controllers were just as overworked.

In the early weeks of the airlift, we learned our IFR skills on the go. By operating aircraft in blocks of the sametype, airspeed conflicts were minimized.

But loading andmaintenance problems gummed up the works. Eventually, many of theseproblems were overcome by moving everything but theGooney Birds to other bases.Still, the total tonnage required to support Berlin fell short.

Enter Gen. William H. Tunner. Tunner had made hisreputation running the famed "Hump" in World War II, supplying China across the Himalayas. The man knewhow to run an airlift. In a very short time, Tunner had thingsrunning smoothly.

A block of aircraft took off threeminutes apart, flew to Tempelhof and landed three minutesapart. One corridor in, another out. If you missed theapproach—pretty rare, actually—you simply climbed out, took the "out"corridor and went back to Wiesbaden. No delays. Maximumtonnage.

Oh, the navigation equipment was still primitiveand the airplanes stunk to high heaven of sour milk andcoal dust, but things ran smoother. By then, most of us hadbecome very proficient instrument pilots—we were alive to prove it—and could find our way to Berlin withoutmuch help.

I always tried to get the first aircraft in myblock because it was usually loaded with milk and wasassigned the lowest altitude. The milk came from Denmarkin bottles similar to today's one-liter Pepsi bottles.

At altitude, the milk tended to rise in the neck of the bottle and pop off the pressed-paper cap. Funny thing, onevery trip, there always seemed to be two liters whosetops would pop at altitude and would be empty on arrival.Milk was hard to come by in Germany in 1948 and we all craved it.

Although he was an organizational genius, Gen. Tunner couldn't solve one problem: Tempelhof was a terrible airfield for an air-cargo operation.

Located in the center of Berlin,very near the East German boundary, it was small, more orless circular in shape and little more than 5000 feet indiameter.

The eastern side was taken up by terminalbuildings, and there was a concrete taxi ramp 400 to 500 feetwide around the exterior boundary, which was a brick orconcrete wall about five feet high. The surface was grass; no paved runways at first. Later, engineers built a proper runway.

Obviously, the German engineers had never foreseen thevolume of traffic generated by an airlift. Landings were,of necessity, mostly to the east and takeoffs to thewest, regardless of wind.

Tunner brought over the C-54s and got them flyingout of Rhein-Main, near Frankfurt. They had trouble with Tempelhof, whichby now was heavily rutted. Those ruts were axle-deep to a C-47. Not at all good for aircraft with nosewheels.It was obvious that the 54s couldn't operate offthat rutted grass, so they built them a runway. Till theday I left, however, we C-47 pilots always used the grass or cheatedoff the taxi ramp. Hold the brakes. Set takeoff power. Release brakes. Roll about 400 feet and pop half flaps.

Stagger into the air and wallow out for the next three or four miles at V2, until you could safely milk up the flaps. Itwasn't real bright of us, but we had the only airplanethat would allow us to do it. So we did.

I've had the privilege of flying with many of theworld's best aviators. Any airline pilot does. But noneof them were any better IFR pilots than that bunch of young C-47pilots who carried the ball in those first few months ofthe Berlin Airlift.

My logbook tells me that I flew 196 round trips toBerlin in 1948; right around 1000 hours. Since then, Ihave logged nearly 38,000 accident-free hours, 8000 ofthem in Gooney Birds, of either the C-47 or DC-3persuasion. I've flown military jets and civilianairliners, some lovely aircraft and some realdogs. The softest spot in my heart, however, is reservedfor the old girl that some wag at Carswell oncechristened "Hustler's Mother."

She came off the line atDouglas before most of today's pilots were born and atairfields scattered around the globe, she's flying still. Long may she continue to do so.

J.B. McLaughlin retired from the Air Force as a colonel in 1961.

Sidebar by Forrest Ott

I had been trained as a pilot during the war but when it ended, we were told we either had to learn another specialty or leave the service. That's how I ended up as an air traffic controller at Tempelhof.

The way the Air Force was in those days—and the way the lift was—I did a lot of flying, too, and ended up as a C-54 commander by the end of the operation, even though I'd never flown a four-engine aircraft going in.

When the lift started, ATC was chaotic, to say the least. We were strictly non-radar; separation was entirely by time and pilot position report. Early in the lift, it became obvious that standard procedure wasn't going to work.

I can recall one day shortly after the lift began that we had airplanes stacked up over Berlin to 10,000 feet, waiting for approach clearance. As activity increased, we would soon run out of sky.

Then someone in General Tunner's staff figured it made more sense to have the airplanes commence a GCA when they arrived at Tempelhof then go back to Rhein-Main or Weisbaden if they had to miss the approach. It worked. After that, no more holding.

We got limited en route radar at Tempelhof in early 1949, so separation was done with radar, time and position reports. But sure wasn't the sort of ATC we're used to now.

Pilots announced time and position over a certain fix, say the Fulda beacon, and the pilot behind would know that he was supposed to be over the same fix three minutes later. If he were early, he would slow down, if late, he would speed up. ATC wouldn't necessarily say a word.

Even with the en route radar at Tempelhof, we had no transponders. Fighters had IFF, but it returned identical codes so all of the targets looked the same. For radar identification, we had to issue turns.

To keep conflicts to a minimum, we would launch blocks of the same type of aircraft. They'd come as a block and go out as block. The altitudes involved were quite low. Since there was no terrain to speak of, we flew as low as 2000 feet, which was more efficient, since descending and climbing just took up time to no advantage. We reserved one altitude for C-54s on three engines. If one landed on three, it was going out on three, too. It was all fairly routine.

Tempelhof had GCA—ground controlled approach—from the start of the lift and it was used even in good weather, to stay proficient. It was a new system and although very few crews had flown it, they learned fast. They had to.

The minimums were nominally 200-and-a-half, same as modern ILS. But you really set your own. You got called a "senior smogger and fogger" when you got the reputation for landing in any kind of weather. I clearly remember a night GCA into into Tempelhof between those apartment buildings in 1/8th-mile visibility. Those buildings were out there but I sure couldn't see them. But we had confidence in the GCA operators. I thought it was the best approach aid ever invented. And to this day, I still do.

Forrest Ott was both a radar controller and pilot. He served as a pilot in Vietnam before retiring from the Air Force in 1971. He died in 2013.

This article and sidebar first appeared in the June 1998 issue ofIFRmagazine.

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