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a Passion For Planes

June 20, 2009 12:36 am

IN THE EARLY years of World War II, the fear of aerial attack was palpable. Americans knew only too well the daily bombings our British Allies had withstood from waves of German planes.

We knew, too, that German submarines (U-boats, they were called) had ravaged American merchant shipping often within sight of our own shores, in what was called the Battle of the Atlantic. And we knew German saboteurs (undoubtedly to be called "terrorists" today) and spies operated in our midst.

There were other things we might not know for decades. The Japanese, our Pacific adversary, had cleverly released free-flying, bomb-carrying balloons to drift over the continental United States in hopes they would either do some physical damage or create mass fear.

That notion flopped, but it was apparently unreported that a Japanese submarine surfaced off the coast of Northern California and shelled an oil refinery with its deck gun. There, too, the damage was minimal and quickly contained.

But America was on edge and on guard, and the idea of civilians scanning the skies for approaching airplanes made good sense.

LOOKING FOR ENEMY PLANES

There were armies of volunteers involved in civil-defense duties. My dad, too old for the armed forces, joined their ranks, becoming a Civil Defense warden. Kids my age will long remember when the sirens sounded, all lights went out and the wardens went forth with their armbands, helmets and dimmed flashlights to patrol their blocks, warning those who had not doused their lights do turn them off, NOW! Woe be unto those who did not take the warnings seriously!

What we could not then know was that Adolf Hitler, the German madman who conducted that nation's war against us, would not and probably could not launch an aerial assault against the United States. For one thing, he had his hands full in a major three-front war fought in southern Europe, North Africa and Russia. It was enough to keep even the impressive German military machine fully occupied.

There was something else. Unlike the U.S. and Britain, which had carefully planned and prepared for a campaign of long-range aerial bombardment, Germany had but one machine even capable of reaching our shores, and that--the Focke-Wulf 200 Condor--could have made only cursory attacks, causing damage more psychological than physical. Had it been attempted, the attacks would have been suicidal, with air crews having little chance of safe return to the Fatherland.

(Late in the war the German V2 liquid-fueled rocket could have been devastating, although it would have needed a better guidance system and considerably longer range.)

helping out the spotters

I digress into this bit of history to set up the prevailing mood throughout our own country in the early and middle stages of the war raging in Europe.

One day my uncle John, who in the postwar period would be known as the (Episcopal) Rev. John B. Henry, with churches in Gordonsville and elsewhere, asked if I would like to go with him to the aircraft observation tower at Seven Corners. Uncle John took an active part in the network of thousands of volunteers who manned observation posts keeping alert for enemy aircraft.

This was, as best I can determine, known as the Ground Observer Corps. There, Uncle John and others kept a sharp lookout for aircraft, logging and reporting type, numbers, direction and so forth.

This would probably have been 1942-43, when I was still just a little kid. The impressions from that visit were not favorable. On the one hand it was exciting for a kid to see the adult plane-spotting network in action.

The downside came when I stood atop the tower with a couple of adult observers and watched them struggle with routine aircraft identifications. I didn't help things any, I'm sure, when, with the innocent audacity of a kid, I spouted out the airplane IDs.

This was not a popular move on my part.

Nobody likes a smart-aleck kid, but I'm sure all I had in mind was impressing the adults with my know-how. I knew my IDs were right, and in at least one case, the guy in charge of the station that afternoon was dead wrong.

Let's just say it was an early and important lesson in dealing with the adult world: Never, ever know something they don't know. Or if you do, and you know they're wrong, for heaven's sake keep it to yourself!

Keeping an eye out

As the war years ground on, I continued to keep a sharp eye out for enemy planes. Needless to say, I never spotted one thank goodness.

One cold and rainy day I did spot a rare Canadian plane, though. The sound approached from the east, climbing and turning in the usual pattern for aircraft departing National. But this was the unmistakable sound of the classic V-12 Rolls Royce Merlin engine. This is the engine in such beautiful classics as the P-51 Mustang and the Supermarine Spitfire, to name but two, and it has a sound like nothing else in the air.

As the plane neared, it could only be a flight of several of these fighters. At least that was my reasoning.

When it emerged briefly, low, from the overcast I was dumbstruck: a Canadian version of the Douglas DC-4 transport, its four engines replaced with Merlins. The sight, and the incredible sound, stayed with me for a lifetime.

Being a plane-spotting nut as a kid prepared me for absolutely nothing in life. But it was fun, it was personally rewarding and it did lead directly to another interest some years later.

In my mid-20s, my mother gave me my first good pair of binoculars. With them, and my first "Peterson Field Guide to Birds," I went into the fields and woods and became an avid bird-spotter.

Paul Sullivan of Spotsylvania County, a former reporter with The Free Lance-Star, is a freelance writer. E-mail him at PBSullivan2@cs.com.