Very early in 1945 we had flown to a remote airfield at the furthermost Northern edge of our capabilities. I immediately noticed the difference in the physical characteristics of the people. They were much taller, which made me think we were close to Mongolia.

The village we were driven to was cleaner by far than any I had seen during my year in China. People were actually sweeping the dirt streets, much like the grounds crew servicing the baselines at a baseball stadium. Dining at a restaurant, we had a tablecloth and silver service instead of chopsticks. AND ice cream; it was wonderful.

Leaving there on the return flight, everything was normal for the first several hours, but about dusk the radio operator was having both reception and transmission problems. It was apparent after awhile that we were lost--big time.We knew that we were close to being on course, but now it was getting dark and the weather was closing in, and worst of all, we were running low on fuel. The pilot figured that our best chance was to set down at Chengtu, which was a very large airfield because it was home for a B-29 squadron. B-29s were the largest bombers in China and needed very long runways.

Continued attempts by the radio operator were unsuccessful, so he resorted to using a key sending out our message in Morse code.

During this time, I kept busy monitoring the fuel gauges and using the crossfeed valve to even out the flow, because by this time the fuel supply was critical.

After what seemed an eternity, I suggested that all of us (4 crew members) put on our parachutes. Peering out through the "soup" it seemed that we were very very close to one of the mountains that formed a ring around the Chengtu air base, but this was my imagination working as we were in a solid overcast. I must have readjusted my parachute straps a dozen times.

At this point I discussed with the pilot the advisability of bailing out. Almost at the same time, the control tower at Chengtu came through on our "command" radio -- which has a very short range--that they heard us overhead. The pilot immediately began a tight corkscrew letdown, and we broke out of the "soup" at about 600 feet above the field.

He started to make a routine landing approach, which meant in this case we would have had to fly to the other end of the field before turning to land. I quickly told him we didn't have enough fuel to go around, and that we'd have to land downwind. With the very long runway made for B-29s, it made it easy to just "go for it". We touched down at about 30 or 40 miles per hour faster than a normal landing.

I stayed with the plane while the refueling crew filled the tanks, which took 800 gallons according to the meter on the gasoline truck. Specifications show that this aircraft holds 802 gallons of fuel.

WHEW!!

Thank you Lord---again.

Copyright 1999 H. Thomas Flanagan