Dellys, Algeria
1130 30 May 1943
Major Richard Canidy, USAAF, sitting in the left seat of the UC-81 aircraft—the military designation for the small four-seat Stinson Reliant—applied more throttle to its single 240-horsepower Lycoming radial piston engine. As he put the high-wing tail-dragger into a steep bank, he caught in the corner of his eye that John Craig van der Ploeg, staring wide-eyed out from under his unruly wiry black hair, had a death grip on his seat.
Oh hell . . .
Canidy casually reached over and tapped him on the shoulder. When van der Ploeg jerked his head to him, Canidy formed a circle with his index finger and thumb, then raised his eyebrows, the gesture asking Are you going to be okay?
Van der Ploeg suddenly looked at his hands and realized he’d reflexively grabbed his seat. He immediately forced himself to let go. Then he nodded and made an okay sign in reply.
Canidy nodded back, but thought, You damn sure don’t look okay.
But at least you’re trying to force yourself to get over your phobias.
Otherwise, this is going to be one helluva long mission. . . .
Canidy turned his attention to outside the windscreen, to the dirt landing strip beneath them. The rough runway had been carved out on the backside of the ridge from where Dellys overlooked the Mediterranean Sea. At this altitude of 1,600 feet ASL—above sea level—they could still easily see the small city of low white buildings set into the hillside with a small semicircular harbor at the bottom. Canidy was reminded of Stan Fine describing it as a small-scale version of Algiers, which was some sixty-odd miles due west.
At the landing strip’s eastern end, next to a Nissen hut, were two olive drab aircraft sitting side by side. The bigger of the two, a twin-engine tail-dragger, was a C-47. A jeep had been parked by the Gooney Bird’s nose.
That should be our bird to Sicily. . . .
The second aircraft was another UC-81. Canidy watched as it began moving, taxiing maybe fifty feet, and then turning onto what on an improved runway would have been a well-marked threshold, complete with numbers “27” to indicate the compass heading of 270 degrees. Here, however, it was all just raw dirt. If not for the presence of the airplanes and the orange windsock above the hut, it would’ve been easy to mistake the strip as nothing more than a wide swath in a crude road that cut through the lush green hillside.
Canidy continued banking his Stinson, going around so that he would touch down almost exactly where the aircraft had taxied now.
As he leveled out and lined up with the strip, they hit a thermal. The wave of hot air rising off the ground tossed the aircraft, causing it to suddenly rise then drop. Although the harness straps kept them snug in their seats, John Craig van der Ploeg immediately grabbed his seat bottom—then almost as quickly realized he had done so, and released his grip, forcing his hands to his knees. He took a fast series of shallow breaths.
Good job, Canidy thought, keeping his focus forward as van der Ploeg’s eyes darted his way to see if Canidy had caught him.
Canidy now saw the UC-81 on the ground suddenly kick up a cloudburst of tan dirt as the pilot gave the engine full takeoff power. The plane then started accelerating and almost immediately became airborne. With a climb rate of 1,300 feet per minute, it quickly gained altitude.
Canidy decreased his throttle and, with his airspeed dropping, began lowering his flaps. As the aircraft settled into a smooth, steady descent, and he tweaked the throttle, he now realized that John Craig van der Ploeg had been watching his every move with rapt fascination—and that he was staring with what looked like genuine interest at the altimeter and its needles creeping counterclockwise.
That brought back memories of his time as an instructor pilot at Pensacola Naval Air Station.
I should’ve let him fly this thing. It would have taken his damn mind off being enclosed.
Well, maybe next time.
No. Definitely next time.
Him knowing how to fly is a skill that could come in handy.
With the altimeter needles indicating they were passing through eight hundred feet ASL, Dellys disappeared behind the ridgeline. Canidy, with the aircraft now quickly approaching the threshold of the dirt strip, brought it in while keeping enough altitude to just pass over the almost dissipated dirt cloud. He then settled the aircraft down, the wheels of the fixed main gear gently touching ground and kicking up their own dirt cloud. The tailwheel then found the runway.
Greased it! Canidy thought, and grinned inwardly.
The Stinson lightly bounced along the uneven dirt strip as Canidy taxied to where the other UC-81 had just been beside the Gooney Bird. Canidy now saw that a guard was sitting in the driver seat of the jeep. He wore a U.S. Army uniform with no insignia. A Colt .45 in a holster hung from his web belt, and a .30 caliber carbine rested across his lap.
He must have gone inside the hut to avoid getting sandblasted by the propwash.
Canidy gave the guard a thumbs-up as he applied the brakes and chopped the power. The propeller slowed as the engine chugged dead. The guard got out of the jeep, grabbed two sets of wheel chocks from the back, then moved toward the aircraft.
In the quiet cockpit, Canidy threw the master switch, then glanced at his Hamilton chronometer wristwatch.
Exactly twenty minutes to cover the sixty miles from Algiers.