Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [259]
Yet, the repeated stress of take-offs with heavy loads and high manifold pressure had resulted in piston erosion. The high usage of craft simply played hell on combustion chambers and there was excessive wear on seals, gaskets, ignition wiring.
Hydraulic systems, particularly the gear-retracting mechanism, were overworked and the coal and flour cargoes eroded cables, wires, contacts, plugs, instruments, radios.
There were breakdowns on the long, delicate nose wheel, never designed for the unusual poundings they were receiving in the many take-offs and landings; fuel leaks were a constant source of headache.
The two-hundred-hour overhaul meant they needed greater logistical support, would have to find and build up 30 per cent more spare parts, find facilities and train aircraft and engine mechanics far beyond the capacity of the base at Obie.
Clinton Loveless and Hiram Stonebraker knew that in the unromantic, poorly lit, drafty hangars, mechanics torn from families and living in muddy tin-hut camps were going to make or break the Airlift.
It was the one problem that could never be solved, only appeased, for the Lift demanded the greatest maintenance and logistics operation in aviation’s history.
“What about it, Clint?”
“I’m sorry, General. I can’t support your view. We have to continue the two-hundred-hour overhaul.”
Stonebraker knew he was whipped. His own staff would not back him on this issue. The Obie Base could only work during summer and autumn and there was no base in Germany that had the facilities to do a two-hundred-hour overhaul in winter. It meant that a wartime British base would have to be reactivated and the C-54’s would have to fly out of Germany.
The dinner came. General Stonebraker ate at his desk, Clint on the coffee table in front of the couch.
“You’ll have to go to England, Clint. Some MATS people will be looking over bases. I have the old Burtonwood Base in mind. Let me know if we’ll be able to get it into shape quick enough.”
“When do I go, sir?”
“Well ... you might as well take a day off tomorrow.” He nibbled at his food and asked Clint how the cooperation with the British was shaping up. Clint said, no strain. The general knew the British would come through from the old CBI days. With joint American/British bases operating soon in Fassberg and Celle and running nothing but coal perhaps they could build up the precariously low reserves in Berlin.
Lieutenant Beaver knocked, entered. Stonebraker ran through his papers, studied the cartoon for the next day’s Task Force Times. It depicted Airman Kimacyoyo (Kiss My Ass, Colonel, You’re on Your Own) at a desk marked, DEPENDENTS HOUSING PROCUREMENT. An exploded cigar had blackened his face and the caption read: “I Told You it was a Thankless Job.” Hiram snickered as he initialed an okay. The cartoon would burn up Buff Morgan.
He studied the incoming VIP list. Beaver persisted that one of the journalists was a “must see.” There was a British Cabinet Minister to be escorted on an inspection of Y 80 and also a French general.
“Frigg the French. They’re not doing a goddamned thing for the Airlift.”
“They fly the flag in Berlin, sir, and we’re intending to lay down an airport in their sector.”
“Any more of your goddamned friends coming in here to interfere with this operation, Beaver?”
The next week Vice President Alben Barkley was due and Garry Moore was scheduled to put on a show at the requisitioned Opera House.
“Where the hell are the Howgozit figures?”
Beaver produced a slip of paper taken from the Control Center with figures listing by squadron the number of flights and total tonnage. It was a terrible day. They had only set down six hundred tons when the weather put the Lift out of business.
His face grew long. How do you whip the weather? He thanked Beaver quietly and dismissed him.
A phone call came on the red line from Chip Hansen in Berlin. Buff Morgan had taken the air-space beef to him. Stonebraker refused to back down; Hansen said he would try to smooth USAFE’s ruffled feathers.
“Crusty, I just got