Original content by Todd H. Huvard
Revised for web by Becka Huvard

huvard.com | AircraftMerchants


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  • D-Day Dakota
  • Lost and Found
  • Low and Fast
  • The Big Stick
  • True Confessions

sunrise c47


THE
paratroopers huddled, shoulder to shoulder, on the cold steel floor of the Dakota as the throaty roar of its big radial engines reverberated through the open jump door.

No one even tried to talk above the din. It was noisy, confusing even, but that wasn't the reason for the silence. Each man was alone with his own thoughts. They were here now, preparing to hurtle out of the C-47 and into the sky above a foreign land. They had been swept along this course, destined to participate in events bigger than themselves — to become part of history. Nevertheless, although the time had come to jump together, each man was alone.

It was time. They stood up with resolve, snapping their rip cords onto the static line. They moved through equipment checks, following by rote and practice each move that would lead them to the small jump door.

Quickly, almost suddenly, each reached out in turn to grip the door frame and, looking back over their shoulders, waited for the jumpmasters’ command: “Go!” Six seconds pass. “Go!” And again, until each man in the stick was away.

Below, the Normandy countryside was a patchwork of hedgerows around the small village of Sainte-Mére-Ere-Eglise. The date was June 5, and the eyes of the world were watching.

———

This June 5 came 50 years after these same men first jumped from a Dakota over the Cotentin peninsula. During that first fateful leap in 1944, they jumped under cover of darkness into a nightmare of war and death. They lost their buddies, their comrades — and they lost their youth.

Now, in 1994, they returned to Normandy to jump again, to honor their fallen comrades and their own places in history. Forty-one veteran World War II paratroopers, 20 of them actual veterans of D-Day, fulfilled their destiny. They came back to repeat the jump they’d made as boys. These men, all between the ages of 68 and 84, had overcome resistance from their own government and the government of those they liberated 50 years before.

When the jump finally went off on June 5, the world watched as their heroic story was told. But the Dakota that flew them, which brought back pungent memories of a half-century ago, also has a story — for it is also a veteran of that longest day. The effort of flying it back to Normandy was itself heroic.

This is the story of that C-47A and its return to Normandy: the D-Day Dakota.

———

DON Brooks has been there and done that. The auto parts distributor from Douglas, Ga., has a knack for making big dreams come to life.

When Pat Epps launched his quest to dig P-38s out of the Greenland icecap, Don Brooks was the guy who brought the big ride. The workhorse of the Greenland Expedition Society was N99FS, a C-47A that was converted to a DC-3 by Basler Flight Services in Oshkosh, Wis., back in 1986. Familiar to thousands of pilots who have seen it at Oshkosh or Sun 'n Fun, the big red Gooney Bird with its massive skis has carved its own special place in aviation lore. Flying in and out of Kulusuk, Greenland, it ferried men and supplies to the icebound work site without malice.

Brooks, to make sure it was always ready, coerced an irascible Bob Harless into the dual roles of chief pilot and head knucklebuster. Harless, an encyclopedic aviation raconteur, operates Harless Aviation, the FBO at Douglas. Bob has a wallet full of official-looking FAA documents for taking care of airplanes. A&P. I-A. Designated Mechanic Examiner. And while most airplane mechanics have the good sense not to fly, Harless is the most feared Designated Pilot Examiner between Live Oak and Waycross. He also just happened to fly and maintain DC-3s for the old Southern Airways. He is part Gooney Bird.

———

Epps, Brooks, and Harless. Kind of the Manny, Moe, and Jack of aviation adventure hereabouts.

So Brooks says to Harless, sitting under the shady Dakota wing at an Augusta airshow, "Let's take this thing to D-Day."

Harless thinks Brooks is crazy. D-Day isn't a month off.

"We probably ought to do something about that right engine," Harless tells Brooks.

"Aw, it only has to run for a hundred hours for that trip. It can make it a hundred hours." Brooks claims.

Then Brooks calls Epps. Epps is in.

Harless, he's in trouble.

———

IN less than three weeks, Brooks and Harless faced the task of transforming the big red DC-3 into a nostalgic C-47. Liveried in the olive drab of wartime, the airplane was recast as KG395 — a Dakota of the Royal Air Force Transport Command's 46th Group, 48 Squadron, the unit it served on D-Day. Ed Davies supplied Harless with accurate schemes, and the paint was still drying when the plane left for Normandy.
Sitting on the ramp at Epps Aviation in Atlanta, juxtaposed against business jets, the Dakota was resplendent in its invasion stripes — swaths of black and white bands around its wings and fuselage. Every aircraft flying on D-Day was painted with invasion stripes, allowing fighters overhead and gunners below to identify friendly aircraft with ease.
Using a set of 1944 shop drawings procured from Lockheed, Harless installed the jump static line inside the cabin to original military specifications.
And Harless installed one new item in the Dakota's panel: a new GPS receiver.

———

By the time Brooks called me, there was only about a week left to prepare for the trip. Going along were Brooks, Harless, and Epps, plus Joey Hand, Dr. Dan Callahan, and Ramsey "Bub" Way. We would also have a German television camera crew aboard, recording the trip for a Speigel TV documentary.

Completing our entourage was Ed Davies, 60, from Millbrae, Calif., an aviation writer and DC-3 historian. Ed had crafted a long history of our Dakota for Flypast magazine in England, and was enthralled with being part of the mission. Though he knew every detail of the airplane's history, this was the first time he had seen it.

Joey Hand, 37, is a multi-engine, instrument-rated pilot from Douglas. A long-time friend of Harless and Brooks, he had been to the icecap with the Greenland Expedition. I first met him in Kulusuk, when he was leaving and I was arriving. We shared a snowy walked to an Eskimo village together.

The next time I saw him was on the ramp at Douglas. "We've got to stop meeting like this," I told him.

Hand knows his way around the DC-3, having helped Harless ready the airplane for various journeys over the years. Having him along would prove crucial.

Dan Callahan, 70, or "Dr. Dan," is a mostly-retired family practice physician from Macon, Ga. One of the principals in the Greenland Expedition Society, he’s also very active in the Air Force Association — where he serves as southeastern regional vice president. Dr. Dan was a medical technician in the Pacific Theater during WWII and he served as the flight surgeon for the Greenland expeditions. On our trip to Europe he’d have occasion to pull out his black doctor's bag and issue some potion or salve to several of us.

Having Dr. Dan on the trip was great — you didn't need an appointment or an insurance card.

Ramsey "Bub" Way, 60, owns an automobile dealership in Hawkinsville, Ga. He had also been a fixture on trips to the icecap to recover the Lost Squadron P-38. He was one of the few humans who made the long trip down into the 264-foot hole, tethered to the end of a chain hoist. I had done that, too, so without knowing anything else about him, I figured him at least as crazy as the rest of these guys.

———

You've read those long stories in aviation magazines detailing the trials and tribulations of ferry pilots who brave the North Atlantic to shepherd their craft to Europe. You know about the complicated logistical planning for such flights, figuring fuel burns and installing ferry tanks. Survival techniques and mastery over the weather. Countless hours spent carefully checking routes and stuff like that. Right?

Epps doesn't do it quite that way. The extent of his planning is asking his patient wife Ann to ensure he has some extra underwear. He flies to Greenland like most people go down to the market for a gallon of milk.

The day we left, he was working in his corner office, which overlooks the runways at DeKalb-Peachtree Airport. When it got dark, it dawned on him that he needed to pack.
Ann packed his clothes, I'm sure, because all Pat thought to bring was his bicycle.

———

WITH the passenger manifest set we were all assembled in Atlanta, scurrying around to take care of last-minute details. My friend Bob Minter of Nashville was in Atlanta on business, and he stuck around until late in the evening to see us off. He hauled me to a grocery store, where I stocked up on critical items like Oreos and Snapple. Everyone brought food, and like an airborne smorgasbord, we had boxes of stuff to eat and drink on the long flights.

Finally, at 1:45 a.m., we closed the doors and rumbled down runway 2 at PDK. Next stop: Quebec City, Canada.

During the seven-hour flight to Quebec, the heated cockpit provided the only warmth in the airplane. Joey Hand managed to curl up his large frame on the floor while Harless, slightly built, contorted his lanky limbs into the cramped navigator's seat and tired to doze.

The Dakota droned on. Epps, flying from the left seat, actually seemed to be part of the equipment rather than its manipulator.

In the back of the cold cargo hold, six old airline seats had been secured to the floor tracks. The others had fallen into restless sleep, already exhausted from the long day of preparation.

The airplane sailed at 7,000 feet, churning along through the clouds of a cold front over the Northeast. Brooks, in the right seat, spoke over the intercom to Epps: "How cold do you think it is out there?"

"Warm," Epps drawled, a moment later pondering. “Don’t you think it's warm?"

And a few seconds later he added, "Keep an eye out there for ice."

Don looked over at him and dryly responded, "If I start talking like Barney Fife, there's ice."

On through the front and into a brilliant dawn, the sunrise poured a soft light over the invasion strips on the Dakota's wings. Below us, the St. Lawrence Seaway arced across our path as we descended to land at Quebec.

———

Notorious for oil leaks, big radials like the Dakota's Pratt & Whitney R-1830 Twin Wasps often leave pools of fluid beneath their cowls. On the ground at Quebec, Harless seemed concerned. There was a lot of oil, more than normal, and it was all over the right engine and gear well.

After some tinkering and figuring, he and Hand set about removing the entire right engine cowling to get a better look. Working out of a red toolbox, they took on the profiles of shade tree mechanics on the ramp of Quebec's government hangars.
Five hours later, it was decided that the leaks were under control and we could still make Goose Bay, four hours north. The weather had been good over the north that day, and Epps had hoped to push on to Greenland. The long delay at Quebec nixed that goal, so a night at Goose Bay would be in order.

———

I had been to Greenland before with these yahoos, so I had an idea of what to expect. I had gone out and bought some more Arctic gear, for the ride north in the Dakota’s cargo bay would be frigid.

The ride was noisy, and the wind blew in from under the edges of the cargo door. We used heavy gray duct tape to seal the door and keep the freezing air out. Still, at 9,000 feet the temperature inside the cabin would dip as low as zero degrees Fahrenheit.
Layers of clothes and a wool blanket made the ride bearable. I fashioned a bed atop the netted cargo that took up the length of the cabin and tried to sleep.

Back in Douglas, knowing “if ya gotta go, ya gotta go,” I’d constructed a temporary john from a large, round planter. I attached a toilet seat and used kitchen trash bags to complete the sanitary system. Somehow, through good planning or sheer determination, none of us had to brave the cold in an effort to use my handsome can.
A five-gallon container with a large funnel provided us a relief tube.

All the comforts of home.

———

Brooks stepped into the cabin and knelt to peer out the window at the right engine. I raised up off the cargo bundle to see him grimace. The engine cowl had a growing stream of oil spilling into the slipstream. In a few minutes, the whole cowling would be blanketed in oil. Oil from the engine. Engine oil.

With 170 miles until Goose bay, an uneasy concern pervaded the aircraft. Up front, Epps and Harless had pulled on their shoulder harnesses. Cold and shivering, Hand sat by the window, watching for smoke or fire. In the rear, the rest of us sat pensively. It would be a long hour and a half.

Below, there was absolutely nowhere for a Gooney Bird to land among the rocky crags and wooded hills of the inhospitable Labrador coast.

"Do you want to land in the rocks or one of those lakes?" Epps asked Harless.
"Pat, I want to land at Goose Bay," Harless said stoically.

———

THE entire base fire brigade welcomed us at Goose Bay. There was no fire — in fact, the sturdy radial engine continued to develop power and hold oil pressure, even though one cylinder had blown and another was cracked.

We crowded under the engine, which was unceremoniously covered in oil, to inspect the damage and congratulate ourselves on living through the ordeal.

Harless pulled himself up on the front of the cowling to peer into the engine and saw the cracked jug. It had broken the prop control cable bracket, which could have presented real problems if we’d had to feather the prop.

We left the airplane on the ramp and warmed up inside at Woodard Aviation Services, the FBO at Goose Bay. Murray Pike, the manager, would provide us with tremendous help over the next few days.

———

That night at dinner, we did what any group of pilots in such a situation should: Drank scotch.

I had the foresight to bring along a fifth of Johnnie Walker Black Label. We poured shots from the bottle and raised a toast to Epps and Harless.

Thoughts of taking the airplane over the ocean were on our minds, but there was outward determination to continue. Going back now was not an option.

"We have a mission to complete, and that's what we're going to do," Brooks said. "We're expected. Folks are waiting for us."

With that said, the task of repairing or replacing the engine became our focus.

———

Epps called Warren Basler. Basler Flight Services, Inc., is known for its specialty DC-3 renovations. They had rebuilt Brooks' plane in 1986, converting it from a C-47A to a DC-3. They knew the airplane as “Big Red,” for its distinctive paint scheme when it flew with the Greenland Expedition.

Basler told Epps that they kept a couple of engines on hand for use ferrying in DC-3s from around the world. These spares, called QECs or Quick Engine Changes, were already built up with wiring, hoses, and accessories. In theory, you simply unbolt the bad engine from its mounts and stick the QEC in its place, tighten a few hoses and off you fly.

As fate — or just dumb luck — would have it, Basler happened to have one of his turbine conversion DC-3s in Oshkosh, scheduled to fly to Germany. Incredibly, the plane would be leaving for Goose Bay within hours of Epps' call. Basler would put an engine in the turbine DC-3 and it would be delivered to us at Goose. We would have a good engine for the Dakota in a matter of hours.

By the time the Basler turbine rolled out on Runway 6 around 11 p.m., a cold rain was beginning to fall. In sharp contrast to our 140-knot groundspeed on the way to Goose Bay, Basler pilot Dan Reid tracked better than 300 knots in the turbine Gooney.

———

GOOSE Bay has been a waypoint for aircraft crossing the Atlantic for many decades. The United States Air Force maintained a large base there until 1992, when the war reserve of fuel was largely burned away during Desert Storm.

Since that time, it has become a training facility for NATO operations hosted by the Canadian Air Force. Contingents from several air forces maintain a presence for the base's NATO mission of training fighter pilots to fly low-level, high-speed flights. While we were at Goose, the German Luftwaffe had a squadron each of F-4 Phantoms and Tornados, the Royal Air Force had two squadrons of Tornados and Jaguars, and the Dutch were flying F-16s. All day long, the base rang with the tremendous noise of fighters taking off and returning.

———

The Royal Air Force allowed us to use one of their large heated hangars, a real plus in the 35-knot wind that was raking the ramp. The airplane, after all, was wearing its original R.A.F. colors.

R.A.F. Hangar 6 at Goose Bay looms like a concrete dinosaur over the vast ramp. Great doors grudgingly lumber on their tracks, slowly revealing a cavernous space four or five stories tall and a couple-hundred feet long and deep. British airmen and technicians go about their daily tasks of maintaining fighters and supplies for the outpost.

With no tug equipped to move the Dakota, Harless and Hand struggled to steer the tailwheel with a 20-foot-long steel tow bar. The sight of the Dakota trundling along the taxiway, with grown men chasing after it in an attempt to herd it along, must have appeared comical to the Luftwaffe F-4 pilots rolling past to their ramp.

When the Basler turbine pulled up to the hangar the next morning, Joey Hand deftly maneuvered a large forklift into position, and after a few minutes of cautious finagling, the replacement engine was sitting next to the C-47. The task of accomplishing the engine change was ready to begin in earnest.

Harless and Brooks exchanged grimaces as they looked over the new radial powerplant. The QEC engine had higher time on it than Harless expected and, as would normally be the case, many of the fittings and accessories needed to be changed or altered to work on our Dakota. The back end had some broken connectors and wires, and there were a few other differences that would require extra effort to prepare the engine for hanging on the right wing.

For the next four days, the big hangar would be our home while Harless, Hand, and Brooks struggled to overcome the challenge of replacing an engine with minimal equipment.

Everyone pitched in to help where they could. Doc Callahan became proficient at spreading and shoveling oil-dry. Davies and I became scroungers, visiting tool sheds and mechanic's bays in the RAF and Luftwaffe hangars to find screws and bolts and knick-knack parts for Harless. Bub Way went to work with a wrench to disassemble hoses and accessories from the old engine.

———

When the work was finally finished, the weather over Greenland had deteriorated. Pat made several trips to the Canadian Forces Weather Office and called contacts in Narsarsuaq, Greenland, to get first-hand reports. All of our possible landing sites in Greenland — Godthab, Sonde Stromfjord, and Narsarsuaq — were marginal, with low ceilings and high winds. The threat of icing was great. When the weather failed to improve over several hours, he decided to wait.

Here, his experience flying to Greenland over the last 10 years shone through. While other ferry pilots were agonizing about the conditions, Epps had gone to sleep. Conditions did not need to be perfect for him, though.

"If you wait for it to be perfect up here, you'll never go anywhere," he observed. But if conditions were bad, they were bad enough to stay put and wait a bit.

It worked out, for everyone was tired and Harless was a zombie. He slept most of the day, arising now and then only to eat.

———

AT 4:30 a.m., Epps popped out of bed like hot toast. At this time of year this far north, the sun was already up, brightly shining through a crystal-clear sky. The nasty cold overcasts had evaporated over Narsarsuaq, a site known during WWII as BW-1.

We filled a couple of thermos bottles with steaming coffee, cranked the engines, and took off, glad to be on our way. Epps turned northeast, flying low along the banks of the Churchill River to give the good folks of Goose Bay-Happy Valley a fond farewell.

The new engine hummed, and each mile raised our confidence and spirits. With favorable winds blowing us along, the Dakota made 180 knots groundspeed, shortening the trip Narsarsuaq to four hours.

Pat flew 50 miles up a fjord to the airfield, buzzing along at a couple hundred feet. The clarity of the air in Greenland gives everything below a vivid color. Ice floes and small icebergs floated in the fjord’s dark blue water. Waterfalls cascaded into the river below from stark, rocky cliffs that lined its banks. Now and again, a single house or a small isolated village clung to low, flat ground near the water.

The scenery is great going into Narsarsuaq for a landing. But the thrill fades quickly if you're paying the gas bill for a C-47. One hour and $4,000 worth of $8-per-gallon avgas later, we were climbing out of the airstrip, flying up a glacier to gain altitude for the flight to Reykjavik, Iceland.

———

We had hoped to fly farther north to Kulusuk, the staging center for the Greenland Expedition's operations on the icecap. Brooks had stowed away some international contraband — 2,000 rounds of 7 mm ammunition smuggled in an ice cooler — for local friends in Kulusuk who needed it for hunting. Since we weren't going to make it, the Commissioner of Civil Aviation in Narsarsuaq agreed to deliver it for us.

———

Reykjavik, Iceland, is a terrific, modern city. The people are friendly and engaging, speak English, and like Americans.

We were met on the ramp by Gunnar Thorsteinsson, an official with the Iceland Civil Aviation Administration. Gunnar had arranged accommodations for us at the Loftleider Hotel and had the local media out in force to greet us. A long day of flying was rewarded with fine Icelandic fish for dinner and a welcome night of rest.

The next morning we made the four-hour hop down to Glasgow, Scotland, where we landed for fuel and to clear British customs. We had touched down in our fourth country and, so far, hadn't shown our passports to anyone.

———

During the long flights across the Atlantic, Epps and Harless would leave their seats to relax or doze. I took advantage of the opportunity to fly the Dakota for an hour or so at a time. I'm not sure how much DC-3 time goes for, but I sure enjoyed my five or six hours’ worth. Even flying the thing straight and level, following a heading, was huge fun. It flies big and heavy, but friendly.

On the way to Glasgow, I was flying when it was time to give a position report. Standard procedure on international overwater flights, the position report is used in non-radar environments.

Its standard sequence is position, time, altitude, estimated time over the next fix and then the following fix. At 9,000 feet, I could not raise Iceland control on the radio, so I simply broadcast. "Any station or aircraft hearing this transmission, respond," I keyed.
An airliner tens of thousands of feet above answered, and passed our report on to Iceland.

Below, the ocean bent away in all directions.

———

BY seven o'clock that night, we were sitting in the pub of the Babbity Bowster, a quaint inn Epps knew in Glasgow's Merchant City district. The apparent proprietor wore an eye patch, and the waitress was a cherry redhead by the name of Judy. After several quick Scotches and at least a few pints of the local bitters, we were getting into our cups and celebrating the successful crossing.

Brooks looked over at me and said, "Before we started, you asked me how dangerous it would be." Then, releasing a relieved belly laugh, he continued. "It's real damn dangerous, that's how dangerous."

The Babbity Bowster provided a good night's sleep. The next morning we loaded up and flew to R.A.F. Mildenhall north of London to collect information on our flights to France. We had been expected at Mildenhall several days earlier to take part in a grand airshow, but the blown engine made us miss it.

Instead, we headed on down to Duxford for a couple of days.

———

Steven Gray is an Englishman who has preserved the history of WWII fighters like no one else. His operation, called The Fighter Collection, is located in a WWII hangar at Duxford. The Duxford aerodrome is home to the Imperial War Museum's aviation collection, which is housed alongside the famous turf runways where Spitfires rose to meet the Luftwaffe during the Battle of Britain. Now the museum, along with Gray's collection, is an immensely popular attraction where daily flights of vintage fighters thrill visitors.

Gray's collection sports one of just about every fighter of WWII. Spitfires, Hurricanes, Mustangs. He has a Wildcat, a Hellcat, and a Bearcat, along with a Sea Fury, P-38, P-40, and others. All of the airplanes are flown regularly, performing spontaneous daredevilry over the museum grounds.

Gray met us when we landed and arranged accommodations for our crew at nearby Cambridge. Harless was quickly becoming adept at finding pubs, and he landed us at one called The Eagle. The pub is famous for its back room, where its ceiling still bears the imprint of young airmen 50 years past. They would come in at night to drink and relax, and somehow started a tradition of using candles or lighters to inscribe the names of their squadrons on the pub ceiling. Their missives are still plain to read today, and gave a ghostly quality to the evening's banter.

———

ON June 3 we were scheduled to fly to Caen, France, for a rehearsal flight over the Sainte-Marie-Eglise drop zone. Pat had jumped through several hoops during the day to ensure the flight went off. He had to get permission for an early take-off from air traffic control at Duxford; we’d have to be wheels-up by 6 a.m. to make our arrival time of 9 a.m. local at Caen. He had filed a flight plan with Stansted Airport ATC, and everything looked hunky-dory.

But the saga of our group's efforts to get the Dakota to France was not yet over. Late that night, after another good evening of food and several more pints of bitters, an ominous note had been slipped under our hotel room door.

Stansted had received a telex from Caen. Our flight plan had been turned away.

"This message from Caen this evening following refusal to accept your flight despite a signal from us stating that your flight was connected with the D-Day ceremonies."

"Madame LeMardis, director of Caen Airport, confirms that we cannot accept N99FS tomorrow, as the authorization has not been requested yesterday or before."

The note said we could call her after 7 a.m. the next day, too late to meet our Air Force contacts.

Epps was irritated. "The whole thing about so much security is ridiculous," he muttered.

Brooks wasn't happy either. "I'm not surprised. There are a lot of people that didn't want the jump to happen all along. I expected some sort of red tape to show up," he muttered. "But we could have quit any number of times. We just won't quit now."

Epps remembered that he had not included our Air Force-issued call sign — Victory — in our flight plan, nor our diplomatic code. He called Stansted back, and asked them to refile with the missing information. The plan was still on to take off, and hope that in the morning something good would happen in Caen.

Eisenhower, it seemed, had less trouble getting to Normandy than we did.

———

Crossing the English Channel the next day was unforgettable. Flying over the white cliffs of Dover, I imagined how the scene below would have looked 50 years ago. Just a few short minutes ahead lay the Normandy coastline, and I pondered how it would’ve felt to be in this airplane on a fateful ride into combat.

We crossed the coast and looked down on Utah Beach and the green fields beyond. It was a peaceful patchwork of farms and small villages. How did it look in June 1944?
We reached Caen to find it an airport besieged by an international military machine. Several air forces were to be involved in the upcoming D-Day events, and it seemed more logistical planning was given to the commemoration than the original invasion. We were met by ranking officers of both the Air Force and the Army, and several Special Forces Rangers were assigned to our plane as jumpmasters. We took the Dakota up for a dry run over the drop zone while the Rangers inspected the static line and got a feel for the jump.

omaha beach


We had planned to fly back to England, but decided to laager in the port town of Le Havre, 50 miles north of Caen. The ramp at Le Havre included a B-17, a B-25, three C-47s, and two or three Mustangs. The assembled fleet of airplanes, including ours, would take part in a formation fly-over of the 15 heads of state, including President Bill Clinton and Queen Elizabeth II, who would take part in ceremonies June 6 at Omaha Beach.

———

I rented a Peugeot van somehow, hacking my way through the French language as if I were lost in a jungle. Most Europeans agree that the French are unbearably arrogant about their language, absolutely refusing to speak English — particularly to Americans. After about 20 seconds of being treated like a sloth, I decided that if there was such a thing as an Ugly American, I wanted to be one.

For the next several days I terrorized both the French countryside and most of our guys as I drove with the intention of breaking any French traffic laws that might exist. It was like driving in Georgia, but with worse signs.

Still, we found our way around.

———

The most remarkable part of our adventure was the weather in Normandy on June 4. Almost duplicating the foreboding conditions that plagued Eisenhower's decision to invade, the ceiling hung low and dark. Winds with gusts to 40 or 50 knots blew cold rain in horizontal stilettos. If the weather didn't change, there would be no jump. Conditions set by the Army held that the ceilings must be high enough to put the jumpers out at 3,400 feet — no lower — and the surface winds could not exceed 13 knots.

Late on the fourth, we had made our way to Colleville-sur-Mer, overlooking Omaha Beach at the site of the American Military Cemetery. With 9,986 marble markers, the cemetery is an inspiring place. We managed to talk our way into the cemetery at sundown, even though the U.S. Army had taken control of security for the ceremonies to be held there beginning the next day. As we were escorted across the sacred grounds by a lieutenant, the gray storm clouds broke and a brilliant sunset enveloped the bluffs and Omaha Beach below. Looking down on Omaha stunned me. How could anything get off that beach and up these hills? The rows of markers behind me provided the answer.

colleville


———

JUNE 5 dawned with bright sunshine and blue skies, dotted with occasional cumulus about 3,000 feet. The wicked weather of the night before had passed somehow, and the winds had quieted. There would be a jump today.

We landed at Caen again, and before the door could open several of the D-Day veterans had gathered by the Dakota. They could not contain their excitement; we mingled together, introducing ourselves and talking about our trip.

An aroused contingent of the international press descended on the scene. The veterans were the big story for the day. Every sort of media hound sought photos or video as the veterans went through a rehearsal with the young jumpmasters.

———

For most of the veterans, the vibrations and sounds and smells of the Dakota brought back the past in a rush of emotion. George Yocum was a 22-year-old paratrooper of the 82nd Airborne in 1944. As he first climbed into our Dakota, I asked him when he was last aboard a C-47.

"Fifty years ago," he said in a voice edged with excitement.

"This is such an emotional feeling," he commented. "When we jumped, I was riding up there, at about the second window. As we stood up, our plane was hit and it threw me to the floor. We got up and the green light came on and we made it to the door. I found out later that our plane had crashed and the pilots were killed that night."

———

During the practice session, the 26 veterans who would jump from our Dakota were animated, clowning and joking with one another while the press swarmed around them. But when the time came to load up, chutes on, a somber mood prevailed.

The jumpmasters had done their best to prepare the vets for the jump ahead. Sgt. Albert Dempsey, 34; Sgt. Carlos Sanchez, 35; and Capt. Dave Kanamine, 35, treated the veterans with respect while instructing them on the jump. When we were finally nearing the drop zone and the first stick of six vets stood to hook up, the younger members of the 82nd could not resist a few rousing shouts of "Airborne!"

———

I had the E-ticket. While Epps and Harless piloted the airplane, and Brooks and Hand sat up front, I was inches away from the open jump door. Sitting on a steel tool box along with Berndt Birkholz, the video cameraman, I was shooting still pictures with one hand and reaching over with the other to trip the shutter release for a remote camera I had mounted on the outside of the plane.

shooters


As each of the men moved to the door, they looked over their shoulders toward the jumpmaster. I couldn't help feeling a swell of pride for what these guys were doing. They were young men again, and the looks on their faces were cast from determination, laced with just a smidgen of fear. But they all went out the door.

———

During one pass over the DZ, Epps had cheated down on the altitude to stay clear of clouds. The jumpmasters waved off the next stick, so on the next circuit, Epps bore a hole through a couple of clouds to remain at 3,400 feet AGL. The jumpers were going to jump, no matter what.

screamin eagle

———

Suddenly, the plane seemed empty. We'd done it; the airborne was out the door. The jumpmasters gathered around the door, straining to see open chutes.

Epps circled the DZ a couple of times, lingering longer than the controllers below would have liked. He finally wheeled around toward Omaha Beach as 16 C-130s bore down on the DZ to drop a battalion of the 82nd and 101st Airborne.

———

The whole thing, of course, was immensely successful. Images of the veterans hurtling out of the Dakota were on every TV screen and newspaper around the world. But the limelight fell short of the Dakota. The story of how it had made it to France to complete its mission, in spite of the difficulties encountered, is known only to readers of this account.

Brooks liked it that way. He brought the airplane to France to honor the memory of his father, who was an airman during the war, and to honor the efforts of the veterans who had worked so hard to make the jump happen. The emotional current that ran through the airplane was thanks enough.

On the ground, the media circus surrounded the veterans and their jump. But in the Dakota, on the way to the DZ, those old guys were by themselves. In each face there was a pitched look mixing pride with a little sadness. They had all done this 50 years ago, when the stakes were life or death. Most of their friends were lost, and it was for them that these men jumped again.

Mission accomplished.

———

Back at Caen, Madame Lemardis, the airport manager, was up to her old tricks. She had proven to be a source of irritation for colonels of several air forces. Now, just a few minutes after we had taken off from her airfield to drop our vets, she was refusing permission for us to land again at Caen.

"You must go to Cherbourg," the controller relayed hesitantly.

Epps was having none of it. "We must land at Caen," he told the tower. He asked that the military in the basement below be called. After all, we had our Victory call sign: we were part of the official events.

Standing in the tower, Madame Lemardis was adamant, and the controller refused clearance again.

Epps told him he was landing anyway. "I'll declare an emergency ... if necessary. Anyway, I'm downwind for 31. I'll call you on final."

As we made the last turn, the controller cleared us to land.

"You could hear her screaming at the top of her lungs in the background," laughed Brooks.

The jumpmasters helped load our gear back on the airplane in record time, as three gendarmes with machine guns walked up.

Sgt. Dempsey asked Harless if we needed anything else.

"Well, we may need you to whip those guys' asses," he said, nodding towards the policemen sent by Madame Lemardis.

"We can handle that, sir," snapped the Ranger, matter-of-factly.

———

formation


THE
following day we flew in wingtip formation with two other DC-3s over the American Military Cemetery at Colleville. Below, on the run into the shoreline, we passed over an armada of warships and vessels that had assembled to re-enact the D-Day flotilla. The great flight deck of the carrier U.S.S. George Washington slid directly beneath us as we flew at 400 feet across the heads of state gathered for the beachside ceremonies.

Returning to Georgia took a little longer without the favorable tailwinds of the trip over. Although the ride was slower, it was much less eventful — which is to say that the D-Day Dakota didn't require any more unscheduled engine changes in the field.

And how will the next chapter read in the colorful history of Brooks' C-47? Only time can answer that question.

August 1994