C.Lunsford

CQ_CQ_CQ_DX

A/2c Charles L. Lunsford

The 12th Troop Carrier Squadron, Medium, hauled everything from soup to nuts, literally, and everything in between. You name it, we hauled it – "You Call, We Haul."

We also hauled another type of cargo that didn't have to be unloaded. This cargo unloaded itself.

Airborne infantry.

The 11th Airborne Division was based near Augsburg in Germany, not far from Munich. They jumped for training all the time, and dropping them was also part of our training. They were the cargo, as it were, and we were the delivery system. The Army had their own airplanes, but dropping troops or equipment on a large scale fell to the Air Force. At the time, the Fairchild C-119G was the best means of putting large numbers of airborne infantry in the right place (hopefully) at the right time. I went to Augsburg every six months or so, and it was always – interesting.

We would be scheduled to start dropping troops about 10 am, arriving about an hour earlier for preflight. The airborne troops, of course, had probably been out there since 5 am, and it was another reminder of why I was glad I wasn't in the Army. The jumpmasters would have them running around the field in full combat gear, or doing close-order drill. Then when they got done with that, the Jumpmaster would have them strip to the waist and put them through PT. That done, they'd all dress up again, steel helmet and all, and run around the field. Then some pushups and line up for weapons inspection, more drill, more running, clothes on, clothes off, etc. etc. Busy, busy, busy. If there had been something to paint, they would have them do that, too.

When it was time to go, they would march over to the aircraft and begin boarding. This was always a slow, laborious process, because airborne troops are so loaded down with the paraphernalia of their trade. Pack, weapons, knives, all strapped or taped to various parts of their bodies, not to mention the huge pack of stuff they have to jump with between their legs. All they could do was waddle and shuffle along. Just getting up into the airplane was a major operation. They always looked uncomfortable and sweaty, and most of them, a little nervous around the eyes.

The Jumpmaster, usually a grizzled, pock-marked veteran sergeant of the John Wayne type, with a booming gravel voice, was in charge. REALLY in charge. There were always officers of all ranks mixed in the with paratroops, but for the duration of the drop, they answered to the Jumpmaster. He told them when and where to stand up, sit down or whatever. And they did exactly as they were told.

We loaded 42 paratroops for these drops and the used "static line" parachutes. For these we rigged a cable on either side of the center, just below the roof of the cargo compartment. The static line strap, attached to the parachute by a long cord with a 90 lb. Breaking strength, pulls the canopy of the 'chute out when the man jumps our of the airplane. Static line 'chutes open faster and more surely than "ripcord" 'chutes, so the troops can be dropped from a lower altitude and closer together. They are vulnerable hanging under the canopy on the way down, so the want that hang time to be as short as possible, with the least possible time in the air. They also had to re-group on the ground in order to become an effective fighting unit, so they didn't want to coming down all over the countryside.

Our C-119s were very good for dropping troops because we could slow to a drop speed of about 130 knots, and our two exit doors minimized the blast of the slipstream on the jumper. I've seen a "stick"(a line of paratroopers in the plane) of paratroops exit the aircraft in about 10 seconds. No standing in the door – that's only for the movies. These guys just ran out the door.

When they were finally aboard and strapped in, we would crank up and taxiout, ready for takeoff with our self-unloading cargo. For the most part, I stayed away from the troops, if I could. They, being Airborne Infantry, were trained to be highly efficient fighting men, told from day-one how tough they were, invincible fighting machines – real killer types, and that's exactly what they were – the best of the best in the world. I always respected and admired the Airborne, but when they were all psyched up to jump, they could be hard to get along with. Some of them tended to treat the aircrews like wimps. I got pushed around some, and there were always remarks meant to start a fight, so after my first troopdrop, I decided to even the odds. I always carried the fire axe in my hand if I had to walk through the cargo compartment when paratroops were aboard. It was a steel hand axe with a curved blade and a wicked looking hook and it was a great equalizer. No more tripping, a favorite trick of theirs, and very few remarks. They left me mostly alone when I carried that fire axe.

Either the engineer or the radio operator had to be on the intercom station that was on the post between the troop doors for every drop. The jackbox and the doors opened inward to form a wall.Those of us who were saavy about paratroops always stood BEHIND those doors. Why? The troops were always telling us they would pull us out with them if they could. That, of course, would have meant death, because we wore "free fall" 'chutes that wouldn't have time to open at troopdrop altitude, even if the ripcord were pulled quickly on the way out the door. I never let them get close enough, so I don't know how much of it was just talk.

As previously stated, most airborne troops are a nervous lot before they jump. Some care is necessary in communicating with them when the time to jump is near. They're as jumpy as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. The Jumpmaster would work them into a frenzy after they stood up and hooked up to the cable. "ARE YOU GUYS TIGERS??" he would yell over the roar of the engines, and they would yell back that they were, and stamp their feet and jump up and down until I thought the cargo floor would buckle. He'd really get them worked up and now and then he'd grab the cable and lean out into the slipstream to see if he could see the drop zone up ahead. Used to give me the willies, but it didn't seem to bother any of them. I guess, if you're a paratrooper, you aren't afraid of falling out of the airplane. But they were nervous. They were PUMPED, man! How nervous and jumpy were they?

We were once scheduled to do a troopdrop for an airshow at Wiesbaden, Germany. It was Armed Forces Day or something, and we were supposed to drop a stick of paratroops over the runway as part of the airshow. But it was a windy, blustery day and there was some debate about even taking off. Wind, understandably, is a NO-NO for descending parachutes. Anything over 10 knots and you cancel the drop. But this was an airshow and they wanted to do it if they could.

As we approached the dropzone, the pilot and navigator were looking up ahead for that tell-tale smoke marker they used to mark the DZ, (drop zone)in order to guage the wind so they could compensate.

Meanwhile, the Jumpmaster had the troops hooked up and cheering and yelling like demons from the pit, and stamping and crowding toward the doors. They were ready, man! Eyes were glued to the red and green lights over the doors and out on the booms, as we drove on toward the DZ, but the green light never came on. We could feel the aircraft begin a gentle turn to the right to go around and try again. The pilot called the engineer on the intercom and told him to inform the Jumpmaster to stay ready for another pass. The engineer was no green pea, so he was behind the doors and he waved to the Jumpmaster to get his attention and told him about the delay.

The Jumpmaster relayed the info to his troops, still standing and hooked up. There was more cheering and stamping and we were tracking for the DZ once more. But the wind seemed to be worse this time and there was some choppy turbulence, but the pilot continued to drive toward the DZ. It was a long approach because he wanted to pick up that smoke marker as far out as he could. He and the navigator conferred all the way, but the final decision to drop always rests with the pilot. He would have to decide soon. Wiesbaden Air Base was surrounded by the Black Forest, in sort of a big clearing, and it was far out over the trees that the pilot could see the smoke from the marker on the DZ billowing along the ground. The wind must have been 20 knots or more. He shook his head and gave a thumbs down signal to the navigator. The safety of the troops was his responsibility. He was not going to drop the troops in that wind.

He called the engineer on the intercom and told him to tell the Jumpmaster the drop was being scrubbed. The engineer tried waving at the Jumpmaster, but with all the yelling and foot stamping and general frenzy, the Jumpmaster didn't see him, so the engineer reached over the door and pounded him on the shoulder. The Jumpmaster apparently thought that was the signal to go, and the next thing we knew, all 42 paratroopers were out the door and descending toward the trees of the Black Forest, about a mile short of the DZ.
I hope none of them were killed or injured – we never heard.
The crowd at the airshow are probably still wondering why didn't get to see a troopdrop. Moral --- Don't ever touch a nervous, pumped up paratrooper when the door is open!

Post Script.
Unfortunately, I didn't retire from the Air Force -- well, maybe you could say I retired after 4 years. As you know, the Air Force pretty well did away with radio operators; said they were going to retrain me in a "related field" which I knew was AC&W, staring at a radar screen up on the dew line somewhere, and I attained the lofty rank of A/2c which they said I'd have to stay at for an undetermined length of time. I was chief operator of the 12th, a 5 level job, with two lousy stripes on my arm, 40 months in grade for Airman first and a good conduct medal, and never made it. The re-up guy at McGuire said they really wanted me to stay in with my exemplary record, but they couldn't put me in a flying job, and they couldn't promote me, because they gave all the rank out at Korea.
We used to have to go before a board for a promotion -- they'd have one buck strip to give, and 500 guys bucking for it. Maintenance people got promoted, but not radio operators. We were all E-3s until we mustered out. The straw that broke the camel's back for me was when a 9 month clerk in the orderly room made buck-- I told them to count me out. I probably should have stayed, because ROs became in very short supply and all my buddies ended up doing embassy duty. They unfroze the rank and most of them retired as Masters. One of them stayed in (reserves) until he was 57, made Senior M/sgt before he retired. 'cest le guerre!
"A standard key is pressed down against a spring, and the length of time one holds it down determines whether a dash or a dot is sent over the air. One has to have good rhythm to make the hand do what the brain is thinking.

Standard Hand Key

An automatic key has a long rod with an adjustable weight that bounces against a spring, sending the dots very fast. Pressed the opposite way against a regular spring, it sends the dashes. One doesn’t pound up and down on a bug—one caresses it from side to side. A really fast operator can set that weight bouncing so fast it chirps like a cricket—hence the name "bug."

The Bug Key

Editors note. After all the years, Chuck had to go back to Europe to look for his old plane; he had to see if he could still remember how to operate the radios. He found his old C-119 in a museum in Brussels Belgium, here he is trying out his old Morse code once more. The picture was taken on June 11, 2002.

Thanks Chuck for the outstanding story. I’m sure all the Air Men will enjoy reading it.