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Fly A Big Tin Bird

by Ralph Peterson

196 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #00-0172; ISBN 1-55212-507-6; US$18.95, C$29.16, EUR19.00, £13.20

A collection of true stories about Peterson's experiences during WWII, from Air Cadet training on into combat flying. As told by a flyer of 32 missions in B-17s over Germany with the 379th Bomb Group of the 8th Army, the stories are told in 'barracks' language with humorous incidents throughout.

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about the book      about the author      sample -- Chapter III: Whoops      catalogue info

About the Book This book is a collection of true stories about Peterson's, his crew's, and others' experiences during World War II. Peterson flew thirty-two missions in B-17s over Germany with the 379th Bomb Group, 8th Air Force. The stories take the reader through flight training and on into combat, ranging in focus from frustrations with service life to troubles with "the brass", all told in "barracks" language with many humorous incidents included. Prologue Like fishermen, pilots like to tell stories, and like fish stories they often improve with the telling. However, in the days in which these accounts took place, if a storyteller got carried away and the credibility of his tale became questionable, his audience had an effective way of putting him down. In unison they would interrupt "And there I was at thirty thousand feet flying flat on my back and hanging by my jock strap." I suppose every man views the universe from a different point of which he is the center. In war, when events move so rapidly and the participant runs the gauntlet of life with such uncontrollable intensity, this fact becomes violently true. The human body experiences more of the experiences of life in one month of combat than in an entire lifetime of normal living. Fear, despair, horror, hate, love and passion reach incredible highs and lows as the person is swept along in the swirling violence of war. Each man sees only a small part of the big scene, of course, but this part becomes a very personal thing to him and it is etched into his memory forever -- should he survive. This then, is my war. The stories that I have tried to put down here for posterity, assuming posterity is interested, are incidents that happened to me personally or to friends and acquaintances in the old Army Air Corps during World War II. I have taken the liberty of changing the names of some individuals to protect the innocent and the not-so-innocent. Otherwise, these stories are true -- HONEST.

About the Author Ralph L. Peterson was a B-17 pilot in WW II from 1944 to 45. He was recalled to active duty in 1951 during the Korean War and served five years in the SAC flying B-36s in the Nuclear Deterent Plan during the Cold War. He was a civilian flight instructor, charter pilot, and also flew air freight. All in about 32 years as a flyer. When he could no longer pass the flight physical, Peterson worked as a computer programmer until retirement.

Chapter III: Whoops

"A couple of times he went into such a frenzy at my mistakes that he stood up in his seat and reached back and shook hell out of me. All the while that he was shaking me by the neck, like a damn fool I was trying desperately to fly the airplane straight and level so he wouldn't fall out."

"However, Aviation Cadet David Good wasn't as charitable. They were entering the traffic pattern to land after a particularly perturbing practice session. DeSantro flew into one of his rages because Gord wasn't holding his altitude in the traffic pattern as well as he should. Screaming and cursing he rose up in his seat and reached back over the windshield and began to shake Gord violently by the neck."

"Now Dave Good had a temper of his own and this indignity to his person brought it to the surface in a hurry. With a sudden motion, he jammed the stick forward and neatly pitched DeSantro about a hundred feet out and up into the air."

"The student and the instructor landed at about the same time. The student in the normal way, and the instructor by parachute."

"Good started to regret his hasty action and taxied the Steerman around to the edge of the field to pick up his instructor. DeSantro refused to get in or even acknowledge Good's presence. Instead, laden with both arms full of wadded up nylon parachute, he chose to walk the half mile back to operations mumbling threats and curses every step of the way."

In the depths of despair, Dave Good expected to be washed out, court martialed or shot at sunrise. He wasn't, of course. In fact we never heard anything more about the incident nor did we ever see DeSantro again. He either was fired or quit.

Chapter VII: It's Dark Up There

"Do you remember Jerry, how they had the flying area around the base divided into segments like a big pie for night flying practice?"

The way it was set up, sixteen planes could be accomodated at one time to get their training. The first four planes would take off and climb to four thousand feet where they would each circle within their quadrant of the pie. Four more would do the same at three thousand feet, and four more would be at two thousand. The remaining four airplanes would be flying in the traffic pattern shooting take offs and landings. Every half hour they would change. The ones shooting landings would climb to the top of the stack and the others would drop down one thousand feet. The lower four would then have their turn in the traffic pattern.

We started at the top of the stack that night and worked our way down. After two and a half hours of circles I was getting dizzy and more than a little confused. It was exceptionally dark and my first time up at night as well. Except for the lights on the field far below there was little to go by to help one stay in his own quadrant. There were a few near misses as cadets strayed in and out of their allotted little pieces of air.

Lieutenant Fried was getting a little frightened, and I guess it was beginning to affect me too, as he kept up a panicky monologue on the enterphone. By the time it was our turn to come down and shoot landings we were both pretty keyed up.

On the first landing I came in hot and leveled off about twenty feet in the air. As the BT stalled a burst of power barely saved wiping out thelanding gear. I opened the throttle and staggered back into the air after a bone crunching bounce. The second time around I nearly removed the flood lights set up at the end of the runway. I made a fair landing and started to take off again. The lights had blinded me for a few moments. I ran off the edge of the runway and went leaping and bouncing over rough ground and runway lights. I pulled tha galloping BT back into the air somehow and came around the pattern for my third attempt. I was sweating profusely in spite of the cool night air. On the third try I didn't round out soon enough and flew into the air once or twice before I managed to get the tail down and land, then I nearly ground looped trying to turn off the runway onto a taxi strip. I had used up too much runway to attempt another take off.

Lieutenant Fried was frothing at the mouth by this time. He took over the controls and taxied to the first intersection where we would be out of the way of other aircraft. He jammed on the left brake and spun the plane around halfway and stopped. He climbed out of the rear seat and stood there on the wing glaring down at me.

"Go kill yourself you goddamn fool, I'll be a son-of-a-bitch if I'm gonna ride with you any more tonight."

Do you mean you want me to go up solo?", I stammered in disbelief. "Do you really think I'm ready for that?"

Take it up or take it back to the line. I don't give a damn which. I've got a belly full of this horseshit."

He jumped down from the wing, threw his parachute over his shoulder and walked off into the night toward the ramp. He didn't even look back.

I sat there with the engine ticking over for a few moments trying to decide what to do. Then with a shrug of my shoulders I said to no one, "What the hell."

I taxied into position on the runway and took off. I shot three good landings before I called it quits and returned to the ramp. I could always do just fine as long as Lieutenant Fried was not flying with me

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