Proof The Bible Is True

The only place I’d seen military aircrafts, tanks or jungles in my small hometown of Oelwein, Iowa, was at the local movie theater. Iowa was more a place for ice cream vendors in the summer, hay rides in the fall and Salvation Army bell-ringers at Christmas.

 

But as I headed over to the mess hut for my morning coffee that day in 1945, I barely noticed the jungle. My months in Burma airlifting supplies through China to the other Allied forces had gotten me used to airplanes and tropical birds. But still I missed the little things. Like a donut to go with my morning coffee. “Morning, Hank,” I said to my copilot, lifting my tin cup in a friendly toast. “Hope we only have one mission to run today.”

 

Burma was a jungle in many places. What roads it had were made for carts pulled by water buffalo, dirt trails that became long ribbons of mud when it rained. A two-and-a-half ton truck loaded with supplies could easily become stuck and disabled, resulting in hundreds of soldiers being denied necessary supplies.

 

Hank and I, and the other pilots in the 3rd Combat Cargo Squadron, could resupply our allies with food, ammo, spare parts, medicine and fuel in our C-47’s. We sometimes had to land our Douglas C-47 Skytrain, nicknamed Dottie, in rutty, captured Japanese air bases, or even on a straight stretch of road. If we couldn’t land, we dropped the supplies by parachute. More than once we returned from a flight to find bullet holes in the cockpit.

 

I finished my coffee and headed over to the briefing tent with Hank. The push to take Rangoon changed daily, and we were never sure where we would fly next.

 

“Resupplying a newly captured airfield way down on the Irrawaddy River,” Hank read from our orders when we came out of the tent.

 

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