Chapter 1
Salutes
From spring through autumn, at out-of-the-way airports scattered across both the American and European landscapes, aviation enthusiasts can be observed tinkering with the machines that warm their hearts and light their souls.
At the crack of dawn, when the air is still and the morning dew glistens, a distinctive shape, sleek yet strapping, emerges from the rows of weather-beaten hangars. In the glow of the brightening sunrise, the silvery ship projects a simple majesty, and even the uninitiated perceive that this is not just any aircraft but a rare breed with a story as profound and scintillating as the sky itself.
A deep-bellowed rumble accompanied by a spurt of grey-white smoke signals the first stirrings amid the sleepy surroundings. The old warhorse, cajoled by her proud and adoring master, brays and whinnies. An ornery temperament is the apparent price for such refined pedigree. Gentle stroking of the throttle brings fits and starts until the myriad moving parts harmonize. Once bridled, the bronco purrs.
There is a purposeful veer off the taxiway onto the adjoining open pasture, flat grassland being the preferred surface for antiques of wartime vintage. A serpentine path to the grass runway reflects the lack of forward visibility from the pilot’s angled perch. With the old-style configuration that places the third wheel in the tail, this ship requires special handling on the ground; she isn’t for novices.
The fuselage’s exposure sideways reveals classic star-in-bar markings to passersby on the contiguous country lane. Though weekend chores loom, some of the motorists slow to a stop on the side of the road. They know this aircraft is different than the everyday spam cans that crisscross the sky. Yes, this one is of grandpa’s time, the kind he flew when he served during World War II. Or maybe an uncle crewed on the type. Or perhaps a distant relative, whose exact role during the war has been lost to time, happened to serve contemporaneously with this mare and her stable mates.
From the corner of his eye, the pilot catches a glimpse of the roadside gawkers. A few of them brave the morning chill and stand by their cars, zipping up their jackets and rubbing their hands. Others twist their necks in the warmth of their cars. One in the disparate assemblage waves to the aircraft and soon everyone clustered along the road follows.
The morning’s flight has turned, innocently enough, into an impromptu flying display. That’s the way it should be, the pilot muses. He tips his head in acknowledgement and raises his arm in a swooping motion over his head to the extent his harness permits. Before swivelling the tail around to point the ship’s nose into the wind for the pre-flight run-up, in the universal language of aviation he flashes a determined upraised thumb to his spontaneous roadside audience.
The engine howls and the ship vibrates. Toe brakes are stressed to their limit. There is a trace of an easing up, just for a fleeting moment. The sequence repeats itself. The magneto checks verify that sparks are ablaze to keep the cylinders firing. Another falloff, this one more pronounced than the prior two, followed by the engine’s return to a full-throated roar, signals that the propeller governor is cycling through pitch settings okay.
Performing the last checklist item, each control surface travels full-throw in a symmetrical wagging of elevator, rudder, and ailerons. For a person unschooled in the conventions of flying, the aviator’s ritual might seem like clownish antics or perhaps an exotic attempt at communication, like a naval officer transmitting a coded message by resolutely gesticulating with signal flags. Alas, there is no message from the aircraft’s control surfaces’ proportionate swings to-and-fro and back-and-forth except that the ship is ready for launch.
A hush falls over the road where now traffic has choked to a virtual crawl and the whole fence line is occupied by a row of cars parked bumper to bumper. Sensing that the take-off is about to occur, a father lifts his toddler over his shoulders to enable a better view. The aircraft inches ever so methodically down the wide-berthed path carved out of what once was a cornfield, the prop wash spraying the latent moisture into a hazy plume much as a speedboat cleaves a trail of white-capped wake in its passage through a similarly malleable medium.
In the cockpit, all gauges are on the redline. The propeller blades whirl furiously and the tip rotation is so brisk that a ‘whomp-whomp-whomp’ drumbeat throbs in rapid staccato. It’s a mesmerizing sensation that does not reach the field’s perimeter for another second because of the distance from runway to road. When the wave hits the onlookers, it is like a tsunami. The air suddenly is thick with the ear-splitting clatter and the ground undulates from the unrestrained power of the mighty warplane rising into its domain, destined to rejoin ghosts of a noble past.
The little boy straddled atop his dad’s shoulders absorbs the initial burst, the awe, the bluster, and the bravado thrown off by the accelerating ship as it races across the resplendent field. Just then, without any prompting but surely with the benefit of tales handed down through the generations bolstered by weekend afternoons taking in classic flying films, the young chap raises his right arm, crosses his forehead with his hand, all fingers outstretched and touching, and then throws the straightened hand out and drops it premeditatedly down. A salute.
Unrehearsed, simple, and genuine, the gesture is a generational tribute as pure and as fitting as operators of the restored warplanes ever receive. And, with experiences like this, such testimonials pass on through the flyable machines to those who first flew them into glory. It is also a symbol of how the movement to keep World War II aircraft in the air has informed and touched those of subsequent generations.
The ship leaps off the turf and holds steady no more than half a wingspan above the deck. Landing gear legs fold into the wing and the ship picks up steam as its speed over the runway builds tangibly. Nearing the far end of the field, the big, burly contrivance is transformed into a slim, shiny dart suddenly pointed skyward.
Strain on the airframe is perceptible, but when the machine was riveted together by women nicknamed ‘Rosie’, it was stressed for several lifetimes of such high G-force manoeuvres. Indeed, this specimen survived action in the world’s greatest armed conflict and has gone on to outlive its successors which have long since been consigned to static displays at aviation museums or to gate guard duty at air bases. To be sure, maintenance is intensive on this relic, yet its longevity is virtually assured by the indefatigability of the volunteer teams that delight in polishing every inch of their charge until its skin is brought to a blinding sparkle.
Barely within sight, the dot in the distant sky arcs gracefully to one side in a reversal of direction and glides back down to where the climb started, etching a huge teardrop against the crystalline expanse. By now, any townsfolk who slept in have been wakened; it is all right to have a gentle night’s slumber broken by the triumphal thunder of one of the boisterous wonders that long ago, against incredible odds, calmed a chaotic planet about to slip into a calamitous abyss.
A cry goes out from someone in the crowd at the fence. ‘Here it comes! Here it comes! It’s making a pass!’
As if tying up a loose end, the aircraft hurtles back over its outbound track. Again low to the ground, it approaches like a sprinting hotrod on a cushion of air. The beauty comes into full-frame for those lucky enough to be carrying a camera of some sort.
The slightest dip is followed by a measured pull-up and then the streamlined husk heaves over on its wing tip in knife-edge. At full-throttle, the ship is cross-controlled in extremis, not really flying but pushing forward on momentum and looking as if suspended in limbo. For a split second the mass of ingeniously formed aluminium is frozen with the overhead planform in crisp outline, the wing spread perpendicularly in a mocking rejoinder to the physical laws of flight. Remarkably, it’s possible to read the fuel grade, printed in simple block letters near the mid-wing fuel caps. If this instant lasted for an implausible country minute, a sharp-eyed bystander could count the rivets dotting the metal structure.
In the morning’s most piercing roar, the aircraft levels and shoots for a higher stratum. It shrieks over the heads of the gathered devotees. Then, in a flash, it is lost again to roam in the boundless sky, the inviting realm that is its natural habitat. There is no way for the pilot to know, but the people watching below break out in sustained applause and loud cheers.
An old gent who arrived late to the roadside show, exits the back of his family’s utility vehicle. The aircraft has already vanished, but the man, assisted by members of his family, at first leans against the vehicle for support and then makes a point of righting himself apart from any crutch or helping hand. Standing erect, he peers in the direction that the aircraft was last seen and his face, marked by wrinkled jowls and a furrowed brow, exudes an unremitting pride as though he was one of the originals who rode astride the mighty warbird long before the morning’s gallivanting.
Like the boy before, the old-timer forms a salute, only in this case it bears the attributes of someone who has rendered the honour a thousand times. Not perfunctorily but conscientiously, even emphatically, he elevates his arm and brings it back down ever so stiffly, deliberately, feelingly. His gaze won’t leave the sky. His eyes, blurred over by tears welling up inside, speak of fighting the good fight, camaraderie among men of the air, and flights possessed of immortality.
When the warbird pilot returns from his invigorating jaunt, the crowd will be gone. Yet the impressions made and the memories kindled will live on for a long time to come, fostering a keen appreciation for those who served in the cause of freedom and instilling a dream of infinite possibilities in which even the sky is no limit. By soaring into the exalted heights of the illimitable kingdom where the aircraft’s rich legacy was fashioned years ago, the warbird’s pilot, supported by a fervent volunteer community, serves to elevate us all.
The Movement
Chino, Oshkosh, Midland, Duxford and many lesser known villages and hamlets have something in common. These outposts punctuating the wide open countryside are the nerve centres of a vibrant movement driven by spirited believers. The common thread uniting the adherents is a commitment to not merely preserve the aircraft that filled the roiling skies during World War II, but to maintain their airworthiness.
It has become extraordinarily expensive to operate the old warplanes. Also, the supply is dwindling because of unavoidable attrition. At the same time, the demand for these historic antiques has risen astronomically as they are rightly perceived to be irreplaceable. Where once it was possible to pick up a war surplus Merlin-powered fighter like the revered North American Aviation P-51 Mustang for a relative pittance, today there are no bargains and anyone in the market for such hardware will have to spend upwards of a million-and-a-half dollars for a restoration of the calibre that has become de rigueur for the era’s iconic aircraft.
The extravagant purchase price is not the only aspect reflective of the high costs involved in the warbird world. Equally as daunting are the operational expenses. The skyrocketing costs of fuel, oil, maintenance, insurance and hangar rental all coalesce to make ownership prohibitive. Not surprisingly, in recent times there has been a proliferation of air museums and flying foundations which pool the resources of many supporters. This is especially the case when it comes to operating such big wartime aircraft as the Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress. It is implausible that anyone could operate one of these four-engine bombers without the army of volunteers available to a fully fledged aviation museum.
Much of the restoration work goes on behind the scenes. Fitting push-pull tubes, adjusting the tension of flying wires, and replacing shock absorber seals don’t constitute the glamorous stuff of aviation lore, but they are essential to keeping the antiques in the air. Those who labour in the corners of dimly lit and draughty hangars with hands soaked in grease and coveralls stained by spills of hydraulic fluid are the true unsung heroes of the warbird movement.
Without the devotion of these skilled enthusiasts to the cause of returning the historic aircraft to their bailiwick, there would be only pretty but motionless artefacts anchored to the ground accumulating dust, subservient to the omnipotence of gravity. At designated times each year most of the established institutions with a stable of flyable warbirds stage breathtaking exhibitions of their collections. The annual air shows and fly-ins are stimulating, even rejuvenating events, and all the more so when the hangar doors are swung open and the colourful assortments are trotted out.
The highly publicized affairs are usually well attended for they are excellent opportunities to observe some of the most famous aircraft ever built in rip-roaring routines, not only one by one but whole formations at once. The organizers arrange for the re-enactment of flying experiences of World War II as they unfolded at the time. Indeed, the Commemorative Air Force, which has been a leading warbird organization since its founding in Texas in 1957, has prided itself on offering a dramatic show at its home airport in Midland that includes pyrotechnic-laced re-enactments of major air battles, starting with the surprise Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.
In an amazing marshalling of resources, the flying display typically comprises a vast number of Zero, Kate, and Val replicas. They dive down at stage centre, trailing plumes of smoke, an air raid siren whines and explosives are detonated on the ground to simulate the real thing. A few American fighters are scrambled and a squirrel-cage pattern sprouts against the afternoon’s cumulus build-up. Before long, the defending fighters chase the foreign attackers in mock dogfights. By some accounts, it’s a corny act, but no one can deny that this is a slice of history reborn – no matter how mawkish the narration and predictable the outcome.
Throughout the next few hours, the restored aircraft, representing all theatres of combat during World War II, are simply magnificent. Every detail has been addressed, right down to the number and alignment of victory marks painted on the nose of an ace’s aircraft. Old photos are used for reference and if the legendary pilot is still alive, he is consulted.
In the days leading up to the big event, the 100 or so vintage aircraft scheduled to participate in the show are ‘gussied up’. Spit and polish are evident for when the crowds fill the ramp and form along the flight line; the trainers, fighters, bombers, and transports appear immaculate, surely better even than when they first rolled off the assembly line. Now, instead of being instruments of war expected to dive into battle, they are prized possessions to be celebrated.
When these aircraft were used for their intended purpose, appearances were, of course, quite secondary; it was all about performing the mission back then. By contrast, as collector’s items now, the warbirds are lovingly wiped down after every flight. The maintainers are serious about the care that the rare aircraft receive. There is a pervasive cognizance that each remaining ship is a treasure, in some cases the sole remaining airworthy example. The prevailing mindset says: If anything happens to bring the ship to grief, it won’t be for lack of attention by the ground crews.
Each year since 1970, large segments of the aviation world have congregated in tiny Oshkosh, Wisconsin, in mid-summer for what is widely regarded as the granddaddy of fly-ins. The town’s population, which hovers year-round at just 50,000, jumps during the week of the annual event to more than seven times that number. For the duration of the gathering, the usually quiet airport remains the busiest in the world.
Warbirds of every variety occupy an enormous swath of the grassy meadow on the north-west side of Wittman Airport’s main north/south runway. With the concerted planning of a superb staff and the invaluable hands-on involvement of dozens of loyal volunteers, the vintage military aircraft are aligned in neat rows according to type.
Since about 350 of the North American Aviation AT-6/SNJ Texan advanced trainers are still listed in the FAA registry, there are more of these aircraft on the grounds than any other type from the World War II era. The Texans, and their Canadian cousins – the Harvards – stretch for as far as the eye can see. When these ships take to the sky during their portion of the much-admired warbird flying displays, their mass formations represent the largest such aerial assemblages of the advanced trainers since they last flew in actual military service.
The Oshkosh-based Experimental Aircraft Association believes so strongly in the preservation of historic warplanes that it offers membership in a subgroup expressly dedicated to the task. Known as Warbirds of America, its members are drawn from the movement’s diehards. During the year, they preen their historic aircraft in preparation for the annual event in Oshkosh, which goes by the name AirVenture.
At the fly-in, experts in fields like metalwork, fabric, welding, control systems, etc. review the aircraft whose owners wish to have their objects of affection judged in the restoration competitions. The restorers’ obsession with perfection can be so pronounced that the judges are beside themselves. Standards are so high that it is a unique form of veneration to be honoured by the EAA. Afterwards, wherever the award-winning warbird goes, the EAA’s appellation follows it.
Indicative of the zeal to have a great-looking antique gracing the AirVenture show line, many of the owners and their family members jump out of their aircraft upon parking in the warbird section and promptly begin squirting cleanser on the oil-splattered cowl using spray bottles they packed for the trip. Wing leading edges and landing gear struts get the same treatment so that within minutes of arrival an aircraft that has journeyed all the way from the prairies or the sawgrass country is looking pristine.
The enthusiasm for a glittering ship is contagious. In every direction, the field brims with examples of brilliant antiques, which form a refulgent vista of blues, yellows, greens and browns. The air is rich in the sweet aroma known to pilots that blends the effluents of burnt avgas and oil. All the senses are immersed in the feast that commemorates some of the greatest aircraft that have ever touched the sky and the heroes who flourished in them.
Of course, the main accruement is the brotherhood among like-minded souls, the shared experiences and the bonding that comes from a collective belief and a common pursuit. The culmination is AirVenture. This is where the faithful congregate. This is where the gathered warbird enthusiasts take to flight. The equipping, readying and burnishing at home during the rest of the year are but a prelude to Oshkosh.
Through its network of chapters (which the organization refers to as ‘squadrons’), the Warbirds of America keeps the flame burning at home throughout the year. Pilots and mechanics can compare notes with their fellow members. When a vexing maintenance issue arises or a hard-to-find part needs to be located, the owner of a rare old ship is not alone. A member in the chapter has probably encountered the same issue and will happily offer a solution, sometimes lending a specially sized socket wrench to complete the job.
Where a huddle forms amid the rows of warbirds during AirVenture’s weeklong celebration, you know that there is a paladin of the air at the hub, an ace perhaps. Reverent flyers and their curious children solicit informational tidbits from the aged luminary. What was it like duelling over Rabaul or helping the breakout from Bastogne? The answers are never timid. It’s as if the man with the leathery face and hearing impairment who is at the centre of attention, like his few remaining comrades at arms, is prepared still to clamber into the cockpit and throttle forward should the order come.
Against the din of the busy airport, the followers lean forward and hang on every utterance. After all, this is not just an eminently skilled pilot, but an exemplary patriot. His moments of truth, while dangling alone and under attack, were infused with repeated surges of personal courage. His airmanship was important, but he evinced something on top of that. An extra measure of determination stared down the danger. A mindset that said ‘I’m in this for all or nothing’ reigned over the cockpit such that the warrior riding at the tip of the spear aimed to accomplish the mission no matter what.
Whole battles, and thus, whole wars, hinge on individual acts of bravery. Without the aged heroes spotted every so often roaming the grounds at events like AirVenture, the world would have devolved into a desolate place.
What an honour for warbird pilots to reintroduce the ever-dwindling number of distinguished World War II veterans to their former aircraft types, in some cases to the very ships they flew to glory. Taking them along to rise again into the vacuum of open sky where they had carved out a victory that unshackled much of the world from the clutches of oppression is the ultimate high, a reward that exceeds quantification. And when the last of the Allied aviators of World War II is gone, there will be reminders of the record of valour for in some corners of the wild blue yonder the period’s warplanes will be seen and heard, the undying guardians of a remarkable heritage.
That is why today’s warbird enthusiasts pledge to keep them flying.