One of the things my dad gave me before he died – one of the most meaningful gifts I’ve ever received – was a well-documented memoir of his life. I knew most of the stories – his career as a pilot for the US Air Force during WWII, Korea and the early stages of the Vietnam war. The section that stopped me cold though, concerned his time flying missions over the Himalayas to supply the Chinese Army during WWII.
In this memoir he is identified as Mac, since that is what his friends called him at the time.
When Japan attacked Pearl Harbor, China had been at war with the Japanese for four years. Hong Kong, Singapore and Thailand had fallen. It was imperative to US interests that China did not follow suit since it was needed to tie up enemy forces on the mainland, and to supply General Claire Chennault’s “Flying Tigers.”
In 1942, Japanese forces severed the Burma Road, the only overland supply line to China. The only recourse was to supply China by air over the Himalaya Mountains at what was called ‘The Burma Hump’.
Mac, was stationed at Chabua, India. Chabua was a loading point on what was called “the aluminum highway”, because of all the airplane crashes. The place was only 370 feet above sea level and the summertime temperature could reach 130 degrees. Pilots climbed into their planes wearing short sleeves and gloves because the aluminum skin was hot enough to burn and the cockpits were hot enough to cook. Climbing altitudes were more comfortable, but above 18,000 to 20,000 feet, cruising altitude, the temperature dropped to 30 degrees below zero.
There was almost always severe turbulence, icing and thunderstorms. In addition, mineral deposits in the mountain range sometimes made electrical instruments and gauges faulty or inoperable. In the last six months of 1943 the US lost 155 airplanes and had 168 fatalities, mostly due to weather or mechanical failures.
One night, on the way back from China, Mac and his crew were flying in between layers of clouds and sheet lightning. The temperature and moisture created static electricity as the aircraft moved through the air. Halos of blue light formed around the tips of the propellers and the leading edges of the wings began to glow. As the plane made its decent into the Assam Valley, Mac and his co-pilot had their faces up near the windshield, trying to pick out any lights in the valley. Suddenly a bolt of lightning hit the nose of the airplane with a blast of white light and a jolt that sent a shock wave through the aircraft. Mac was blinded for about five minutes and his copilot could just see well enough to level the plane and hope for the best. They finally picked up the runway lights and landed safely. The next day they found a silver dollar- sized hole in the nose of the plane.
On another mission Mac was on his way back from China when his co-pilot saw a Japanese fighter plane take off from an unknown airstrip in the jungle. They stuck the nose down and made a dive for the last ridge of mountains separating them from their base. They kept diving at 260 mph through the mountain pass and snaked their way through to the Assam Valley flying just above the tree tops. They eventually linked up with U.S. fighters racing out to intercept. Whether those fighters caught the Zero or not, he never knew.
Eventually, after 15 months and 1,071 hours flying the Burma Hump, Mac rotated out. but those harrowing, exhausting, and courageous flights remained with him for the rest of his life. And now, through his words, they’re with me too.
Jim McJunkin has been a photographer for over 50 years and has been involved in a number of art and photography shows around the country. He has work in the permanent collection at the National Vietnam Veterans Art Museum in Chicago, Illinois, and has authored several photography related books. Jim and his wife Beth have lived in Wimberley for 20 years.
