Airlift Humour

 The Berlin Airlift was notorious for the banter among crews and between crews and controllers. Almost all veterans remember with amusement the wit that filled the airwaves. Unfortunately, very little of that chatter was recorded -- and much of it would probably have been unprintable anyway! This essay can only provide a faint echo of the lively repartee by reporting what veterans remember and shared.

Surprisingly, General Tunner, otherwise a terrible stickler for flying “by the book” and following rules to the letter, recognised the importance of this “wisecracking” and joking. Professional that he was, he realised that bored pilots are more likely to get careless and so more likely to make mistakes – particularly in an environment like the Airlift where precision counts. The fact that he tolerated the flippancy and non-regulation communication that filled the airwaves during the Airlift is testimony to its importance. And everyone who flew the Airlift remembers it with affection.

However, almost none of the humour inherent in an operation like this can be conveyed to the uninitiated reader. In its mildest form, it involved some kind of play on the call-sign of an aircraft: 333, for example, was turned into “State Express” because this was a well-known brand of cigarette at the time, the Lancastrian with the call-sign “TB” only announced his presence by coughing, and the Tudor with the call sign “CD”, responded to communications in the positive by saying “woof.” The Americans, it is said, corrupted the designation for the key beacon north of Berlin, Frohnau, into “fraulein” and dutifully reported their position as “on top of the fraulein.”

Other remarks were nothing more than quick wit made hilarious by unexpectedness and the fact that it usually came “out of the blue,” such as the American pilot who overheard a hot exchange between AVM Bennett and a Controller and defused the situation anonymously by remarking in a heavy American accent, “Hey, if you guys are gonna start shooting down there, I just ain’t gonna land this ship.”[i]  Or, in another instance, a pilot reported he had “lost” his No. 3 engine – only to promptly receive the helpful advice from a colleague over the airwaves that he should “try looking on the starboard wing.” A pilot who bounced on landing variably had an audience counting the number of bounces in a loud chorus of “One, Two, Three, Four….” Commentary on flying techniques was standard operating procedure, and the controllers were not above asking pilots to “please take better care of our runway next time” and the like.

Much of the humour depended on “being there,” “being an insider,” knowing the rules, the personalities, the popular songs, radio shows and film personalities of the time — and the individuals involved. As one RAF pilot stressed, since the RAF flew in squadrons and knew each other well, they recognised voices over the R/T and knew more about one another than merely the professional side. They often used Christian names rather than call-signs.

Last but not least, much of Airlift humour depended on accent. Both British and Americans took pleasure in teasing each other about their respective means of “mutilating” a common tongue. Accents could also lead to confusion. Controllers at Gatow expecting an RAF Dakota were astonished to hear a broad Great Plains accent coming over the airwaves. Instantly assuming that a USAF C-54 had somehow slipped into the pattern by mistake, they inquired of the aircraft: “123, are you a Skymaster?” To which the pilot (a Canadian as it turned out) replied in his drawl, “Ah don’t think so. Ah was a Dakota when Ah took off, but I’ll take a look. Maybe Ah’ve growed some.”[ii] 

 

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[i] Capt. Stan Sickelmore, Talk before the Royal Aeronautical Society, May 28, 1999.

[ii] Jackson, p. 127

 

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