Envelopment from the Sky

In the Tennessee maneuvers last week a full U.S. airborne division was used in a tactical operation with larger units. Paratroops and glider-borne infantry carried out the attack. Riding with the glidermen was TIME Correspondent John H. Walker, who wrote this account.

The airborne attack was launched from Campbell Field, Ky., 100 miles northwest of the battlefield. In the grey mist big transports thundered down the runways closely spaced, each plane crammed with paratroops and each towing a bulky Army glider.

Now it was time for us to get moving. Major General William Carey Lee, division commander, who had invited me to ride with him, led the way to Glider 37, whispering mildly: "Well, here we go again." We piled in.

The tow plane started up before we were sitting down. A young lieutenant, settled on the benches running fore & aft on both sides of the glider, checking parachutes, barely got out in time. He lit running as the big 15-man glider, suddenly an amazingly skittish, lightfooted creature, lifted off the runway. To a glider novice the take-off was startling; we were airborne and climbing on the rope while the heavier tow plane was still soaring down the runway, picking up speed for its own takeoff. We climbed rapidly to 700 feet, circled to get into formation.

Candid Craft. The troop-carrying glider is a candid sort of aircraft, no secrets, nothing concealed. Canvas fabric covers the fuselage; in flight it vibrates like a drumhead. The whole craft is springy and alive as a new buggy. Pilot and copilot sit up in the blunt, transparent nose, a single row of instrument dials in front of them. The noise of rushing air is astonishing.

Controlling the flying boxcar on the end of the tow cable is not easy. Our pilot worked hard at it, carefully keeping us above the tow plane and out of its jolting prop-wash. He gripped the control wheel tightly, several times took one hand off to stretch his cramped fingers.

One thing had gone wrong right at the start; the undercarriage release gear jammed. Combat gliders use wheels only for the takeoff, then drop them and land on heavy skids. Failure of our release gear meant that we would have to land on wheels--and no brakes. At the time it seemed unimportant.

At 6:55 a.m. we were less than five minutes from our target--"Z-field," a meadow near Lafayette, Tenn., where the divisional command post was to be established. Ground mists had kept us fairly high. Ahead and below we could see other tow planes flitting along. Now gliders were cutting loose, swinging off to land in the little tree-bordered fields ahead.

Glider Crackup. Suddenly our pilot reached up, hesitated a fraction of a second, then smacked the tow release lever. With a twang like a snapped harp string, the long white towing cable vanished. The pounding thunder of air dropped to a murmur.

At once the glider slowed down, then picked up speed again as the pilot banked sharply, stood it on the right wing and started down in a sweeping curve. There were three possible fields in sight, but we were too high and going too fast for the nearest one. The farthest was too tiny, surrounded by big, mean-looking trees, and we would have to poop over a highway and power lines to get in.

Yes, it had to be the middle field. We came in over trees, slipped steeply, straightened out. Now our wheels touched. We rushed swiftly over dew-studded grass and everything was suddenly very silent.

Then lean General Lee turned sharply, snapped out: "We're going to hit."

I grabbed two steel struts overhead, braced myself and stared over the copilot's shoulder. Another glider had landed ahead of us: its troops were scrambling out into the battle. We ripped toward the end of the short field, charged past the glider, ripped off one of its wing tips. We slashed through a fence.

We wound up with a lurching thud against the far side of a deep ditch, just short of the highway. No one shouted or said a word. With thick, fumbling fingers we unlatched the safety belts. General Lee slumped forward, dazed and winded. It was his luck to be the only one knocked out. Most of our passengers scrambled out into the battle, left one officer and me to drag wiry, 48-year-old General Lee out on to the ground. A young paratrooper came by, stared in awe at the wreck, then laughed and said: "Jeez! You must have guts."

The General, a qualified parachutist who has absorbed many a hard wallop, was getting back his wind and consciousness. He sat up, looked around. Presently some medical officers came up on the double and took him off, grinning and protesting, to an evacuation hospital set up in tents a few miles away.

Around us, the demonstration was going full blast. The tow planes had swung back overhead and were dropping more paratroops. The sky seemed to blossom and fill with 'chutes, white for the men and bright colors for specific types of packed equipment. Several other wrecked gliders were lying on the field. Men were scurrying by, organizing their positions and setting up mortars, machine guns and bazooka positions. Enemy tanks and cavalry appeared, blasting away with blank ammunition in a confusion of swirling dust and bright sunshine.

As in real war, command of the airborne troops passed on to Brigadier General Don Pratt, General Lee's assistant commander. Relays of paratroops came in on schedule during the morning. So did a glider resupply mission.

By next morning reconnaissance elements from the south had circled both "enemy" flanks, the river crossing had been forced in two places with pontoon bridges, the armored division was pressing north so vigorously that the defenders seemed in a fair way to be driven right back into the airborne division's command post.

General Lee was on hand for the windup, satisfied with the show. His verdict: There are still some loose ends to pick up during these maneuvers. After that the outfit ought to be in fighting trim.

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