Civilians taught the Army Air Force how to fly the DC3
and then the Army showed civilians how to overload it.
Another vivid memory also begins at Meiktila. This time Captain Pat Moore was in command and I was his first officer. Our charter was to rush Burmese troops to Moulmein to support troops defending the aerodrome. As the troops in full battle gear scrambled aboard I saw Pat laying under the tail casually puffing his disgusting pipe. His eyes were riveted on the tail wheel strut. Suddenly he shouted STOP and ordered the last two soldiers to leave the plane. They left with ill grace, but Pat’s action had undoubtedly extended their life span.
We took off with 57 soldiers and a crew of two on that DC-3. On the way to Moulmein I broached his lying under the tail. Issuing through a cloud of noxious smoke his voice assured me that the Indian was the undisputed master of the short cut. Watching the shortening tail strut was the Indian method of reaching a maximum take off weight without actually weighing each item. Not only had Pat invented most of the tricks he rarely missed the chance to profit by another’s offering. That crafty old bastard taught me at lot!
Pat slammed us down on the perimeter of Moulmein airfield with bullets peppering the place. A major battle was in progress. Our courageous troops de-planed without waiting for the port engine to wind down and charged to engage their enemy. Later we heard that they were killed to a man within 15 minutes of our departure, however, our troubles were not yet over. While the plane was shuttering to a stop he yelled, don’t let anyone pin the undercarriage. With bullets pinging all round I zealously guarded those wheels. Pat’s scream of, Let’s get the hell out of here! galvanised me into action at a speed hitherto unsuspected, and in three strides, and with a Herculean leap I was aboard and had slammed the rear door. On hands and knees I grovelled up the aisle fighting the acceleration and plonked into my seat just as we clipped the trees at the end of the airfield. As he skidded us around the famous Moulmein Pagoda he ordered wheels up. To my horror they wouldn’t budge, and Pat’s reproachful look deflated me more than angry words. We flew back to Mingaladon with the wheels locked down, fervently hoping the engines would not lose their harmonious note.
Our walk-around disclosed not a single bullet strike – unbelievable luck! Then, up strolled Pat brandishing our aircraft’s safety pins as his hand squeezed my shoulder - increasing my miserly height by a yard!
In the split seconds from leaving my post until Pat poured on the power someone had pinned the wheels. It took real guts to remember standing instructions with a battle raging. Perhaps this was taking good training a little far!
Later, safe from the din of battle, Pat compared our flight with that of CNAC’s Captain Moon Chin, the legendary pilot who rescued 68 passengers from Myitkyina with Japanese troops breathing down his neck. Aboard this flight was a long time friend - a nondescript little bloke escaping through Burma who on 18 April 1942 to lead a bombing raid that encouraged a free world in retreat. The 1944 film Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo enshrines Lieutenant Colonel James Harold Jimmy Doolittle’s name for as long as valour is valued.
Our load of 57 trailed Moon Chin’s but did his passengers carry battle packs? I think not. The DC3 was, and still is an astonishing aeroplane. Again endorsing the statement that, Civilians taught the Army Air Force how to fly the DC-3, and then the Army showed the civilians how to overload it.
We took off with 57 soldiers and a crew of two on that DC-3. On the way to Moulmein I broached his lying under the tail. Issuing through a cloud of noxious smoke his voice assured me that the Indian was the undisputed master of the short cut. Watching the shortening tail strut was the Indian method of reaching a maximum take off weight without actually weighing each item. Not only had Pat invented most of the tricks he rarely missed the chance to profit by another’s offering. That crafty old bastard taught me at lot!
Pat slammed us down on the perimeter of Moulmein airfield with bullets peppering the place. A major battle was in progress. Our courageous troops de-planed without waiting for the port engine to wind down and charged to engage their enemy. Later we heard that they were killed to a man within 15 minutes of our departure, however, our troubles were not yet over. While the plane was shuttering to a stop he yelled, don’t let anyone pin the undercarriage. With bullets pinging all round I zealously guarded those wheels. Pat’s scream of, Let’s get the hell out of here! galvanised me into action at a speed hitherto unsuspected, and in three strides, and with a Herculean leap I was aboard and had slammed the rear door. On hands and knees I grovelled up the aisle fighting the acceleration and plonked into my seat just as we clipped the trees at the end of the airfield. As he skidded us around the famous Moulmein Pagoda he ordered wheels up. To my horror they wouldn’t budge, and Pat’s reproachful look deflated me more than angry words. We flew back to Mingaladon with the wheels locked down, fervently hoping the engines would not lose their harmonious note.
Our walk-around disclosed not a single bullet strike – unbelievable luck! Then, up strolled Pat brandishing our aircraft’s safety pins as his hand squeezed my shoulder - increasing my miserly height by a yard!
In the split seconds from leaving my post until Pat poured on the power someone had pinned the wheels. It took real guts to remember standing instructions with a battle raging. Perhaps this was taking good training a little far!
Later, safe from the din of battle, Pat compared our flight with that of CNAC’s Captain Moon Chin, the legendary pilot who rescued 68 passengers from Myitkyina with Japanese troops breathing down his neck. Aboard this flight was a long time friend - a nondescript little bloke escaping through Burma who on 18 April 1942 to lead a bombing raid that encouraged a free world in retreat. The 1944 film Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo enshrines Lieutenant Colonel James Harold Jimmy Doolittle’s name for as long as valour is valued.
Our load of 57 trailed Moon Chin’s but did his passengers carry battle packs? I think not. The DC3 was, and still is an astonishing aeroplane. Again endorsing the statement that, Civilians taught the Army Air Force how to fly the DC-3, and then the Army showed the civilians how to overload it.
James Harold (Jimmy) Doolittle (Photo: U.S. Army)
