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Flying Helicopters in Australia with General Yeager

April 25th, 2013 . Posted in Aviation, Daily Life with Chuck Yeager, Flying with Chuck Yeager, Friends, Humor, Traveling | No Comments »
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As we returned to Sydney from Canberra in Australia by helicopter, the pilot/owner/host’s wife PS asked if pilot DS would kindly do an aerial tour of Sydney Harbour for me. So beautiful.

DS is quite an accomplished helicopter pilot, with many firsts to his name, and who flies helicopters a lot – has quite a lot of time in them.

PS & DS are two very wonderful people. Smart, enthusiastic, talented, kind, funny, generous…

We flew up the coast a little and then turned in. DS asked Gen Yeager if he’d like to fly a bit. Okay. So Gen Yeager had control of the heli.

DS said: “My daughter lives over there,” as he referred to our 7:00, “Chuck, could you fly over there so we can wave?”

Gen Y: Okay.

He banked left – I don’t know the degrees but it felt almost horizontal – maybe 60 degrees though.

We could hear DS talking to himself: Wow, that’s quite a bank. I wouldn’t do a bank like that. But it’s Chuck Yeager and he probably knows what he’s doing -

We straightened out, did a great slow fly by, a wave, and headed back to the center of Sydney.

Quite funny! (Because Gen Yeager did know what he was doing! Don’t try this at home.)

c. GCYI

In Search of Chuck Yeager’s Evading Germans 1944

April 22nd, 2013 . Posted in Aviation, Daily Life with Chuck Yeager, World War II | No Comments »
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I had wanted to explore with CY the places where CY had been shot down and was working with the Maquis, escaping into Spain.

Finding specific spots was an adventure. Not many who were involved in 1944 were still around, kids didn’t get the history from their parents, many would-be not so good historians who got much information wrong so we got many opinions. It took three years and three trips to gather the information.

We met the mayor of a town near Casteljaloux. He says he was six when he saw General Yeager’s parachute come down. He says he called his sister, age 4, out to the field to see it. He also still had the window from General Yeager’s P-51 and was so pleased to show it to its owner – General Chuck Yeager. The whole family and neighborhood was out to see this.

The sister was looking at CY and said (in French): It’s a great thing that he was saved.

I understood. I thought. I waited for her to say something like all that CY had accomplished.

Instead, she said: So handsome!

I thought good thing he wasn’t ugly I guess – would they have thrown him back?

We then went to where CY’s P-51 came down. The first time we visited the crash site, the owner of the property was having a hunting party and not been forewarned of our visit. Fortunately Philippe and his wife, Jacky are kind, generous, warm people who were thrilled to meet General Chuck Yeager.

There was a hole there; no, not from when the plane originally crashed, but from when the Germans and later “historians” came to dig the plane out.

We visited an area where folklore says CY came down in his parachute. The forest had been cut down within the last 10 years. About five elderly men started arguing as to where the actual spot was. It was that tree, no, that tree. No, that area. No, over here.

We often had 5-10 people talking at me – all in French. That was a challenge.

Gen Y was very gracious – this was not the spot where he came down – it was too close to houses. He steered clear of houses.

Next we went to La Rode, where the Russian Lady, the first English speaking person CY met in 1944, interrogated Gen Yeager. There were many photos of the house as it had been in 1944. Today the area where the Russian Lady had lived had already crumbled.

We met the Russian Lady’s daughter in 2008. She was the youngest of the Maquis we had met – and she was the first one to die – in her 70′s – in 2009, before we were able to get back. We were very sad but glad we had met her (again for CY). She had some great insights.

We visited Gabriel’s house and Raoul’s house both places where CY had hidden.

We saw the tree under which Gen Yeager had sat watching the Germans walk by after which Gabriel was apoplectic and vehemently warned CY not to go outside again.

Near Raoul’s house, relatively, was the field where several allied drops were made, one of which Raoul and CY had helped collect and load.

Unfortunately, by the time we returned two years later, Raoul’s house had been remodeled beyond recognition and beauty.

We also visited Gabriel’s grave. That was a very sad moment. General Yeager was quite moved. Gabriel had saved his life oh so long ago. The grave was beautiful and elegant.

We visited the site where we have a photo of Gabriel and CY from 1955-56 when CY had gone back to visit while stationed in Germany.

Gabriel must have felt great joy when he saw CY in 1955-56 – that one of the many men he had saved, because there were a few he couldn’t, had not only survived, but had gone on to do great things.

I know Raoul, when he saw General Yeager for the first time in 66 years, had tears of joy. Charlie – with a French accent: Sharlee – had survived.

We visited the field where the German airplane that had shot down CY, had come down. We learned the German pilot’s parachute had not opened so he did not survive.

We visited the farm where CY played soccer with the little boy Jean. And the house in Casteljaloux where he had spent his first night with the French Underground. The current owner is a larger than life women with a big personality so thrilled to see us and know her house had some importance in history.

We visited the defunct pencil factory – from the outside. So picturesque.

We visited the farm that was where they assembled the evadees to take the south to the Pyrenees. The present day farmer was resistant to strangers. But after just a few minutes, he and his wife were inviting us inside for a drink.

We visited the Saturday market and saw where Gabriel had his booth and where most of the messages were passed. Other messages were passed at Gabriel’s house – another had the radio and he would come by to relay the messages such as it’s raining. This meant the Allies were going to do a drop that evening.

We met so many wonderful people. One couple saw the plane come down almost toward them. That’s the couple, a little embarrassed because, although not married yet, were having a tryst. When General Yeager heard this, he asked her (and I had to translate): Now did you have the best view? Were you on the bottom?

She giggled. Something only CY could get away with.

Another 2 people, brother and sister, saw the plane’s trajectory as they came out of church. Their father was the pastor. When we asked them to point the trajectory as to where it came down 66 years before – two different hands/arms pointed in completely different directions. Very funny.

We met Gabriel’s widow days before she died. CY had met her in 1955-56. She admitted she had such a crush on him. She refused to see him while in the hospital – she wanted to look her best. Well she did look great and I told her so. So she ceased worrying about me as competition and glowed even more.

After two tries and CY said no, that’s not it, the guys on the ground finally did some more research, and found the route CY took when he hiked over the Pyrenees. We got to see this. We also saw a prison just like the one he escaped and the hotel where he slept for a day. We met the wife of the former owner.

The had a grand festival in Sort on October 14, 2010. The whole town came out. On stage, the Spanish Air Force made CY an honorary Spanish Air Force pilot. Gen YEager smiled, took the proffered wings pin and said Where is my airplane?

The audience roared.

Then a trio sang like the Andrews Sisters and did a great job. They couldn’t figure out whether to flirt with my husband or with the handsome Spanish Air Force General sitting on my other side. They were talented and delightful.

We went to the spa in Spain where CY stayed for a week or more and perhaps the building where he had stayed on the way.

We look forward to our next visit – we may get to meet Dr. Henri’s son. Dr. Henri was the man who brought CY from house to farm and then down to Nerac.

c. GCYI

Nepal – Studying Monkeys

April 7th, 2013 . Posted in Traveling | No Comments »
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I found university boring. So I signed up as a volunteer helping re a scientific study in Nepal.

Apparently the Rhesus monkeys the US were using in studies were dying at an alarming rate at infancy. The study intended to find out why. Nepal had stopped shipping monkeys to the US because of this infancy mortality rate. I also heard that the monkeys were not well-treated on the trip over either.

I flew for hours and hours, stopping in all sorts of places to get to Nepal. It was not my first trip away from home, but it was the farthest and the first to a non-European or European derivative or American culture.

When I arrived, another participant was there and we hired a bicycle rickshaw to take us from the airport to the guesthouse. My goodness that was quite a long ride. Outstandingly beautiful.

While we were there during the monsoon season, this day was a brilliant sunshine as we passed terraces and hillsides of rice and rice planters.

Green upon green with great interruptions of brilliant color – the women’s clothing.

We were told to NEVER drink the water. Even use bottled water for brushing one’s teeth. I had had every vaccine they had thought of before this trip but best immunity is to not be exposed.

The food was too spicy for me so I lived on yak shakes. I think they were yak yogurt shakes. Very good.

We were briefed that evening. Remember. Don’t look at the monkeys. Don’t smile – they see it as a grimace and a challenge.

It might provoke them to attack. If bitten by a monkey, you will have to get  anti-rabies shots from needles a half mile long. The flights are too long so you can’t get anywhere else in time for the next shot. You would have to stay in Nepal an extra 30 days to get these daily shots for 30 days.

Shiver. NeedleS got my attention.

We were split up – half would study the monkeys at one temple. The other would study the monkeys at the other direction – in a garden.

Monkeys in Nepal are considered sacred.  Define sacred though – the kids threw rocks at them.

I was assigned the other palace garden much farther away. Only way to get there was to bicycle. I certainly got fit. There would be four of us at a time. We had to pick a baby and record everything it ate in a four hour period. Be very careful, the mothers would know we were watching. Be careful re food. Do NOT feed them.

After a few days, a week at the most, if we behave unthreateningly, the monkeys would eventually see us as part of the herd and ignore us.

It was fascinating for the first week or so. Our group was there for three.

About 9 days into this, i was quietly out of the corner of my eye watching one baby from about 80 yards. The mama started yelling at me in Rhesus. I turned even further away but I was assigned to that baby – something had interested the scientist and she thought I was the most thorough and observant.

Near this mama to my right – about 30 yards from her and 60 from me, was the leader of the herd and a couple of his lieutenants.

He told her to be quiet.

She stopped for a while. I was now about 120 yards away, facing 90 degrees away watching from my peripheral vision.

She started yelling at me again. Always present in my mind were those rabies shots. I started to mosey diagonally farther away.

This wasn’t enough. She must not have liked my shirt that day or something. She continued yelling, then jumped down from the tree and came racing over to me.

I stood stock still, looking down, not smiling, definitely not looking her in the eye. I was praying and wondering what a bite would feel like and if she would stop and who would come to help. I doubted any of the other volunteers would.

She stopped about 10 yards away trying to challenge me, then trying to decide what she would do.

I noticed the leader was racing toward me now.

Oh man  - this isn’t good….when it became clear he was running to stop the mama. He told her to go away.

She ran off, turning now and again to get a last word in.

The leader came over to me.

Uh oh.

A bite from him is going to hurt even more…if I survive at all.

I tried to become invisible as I resisted any urge to do anything else like run, and stood stock still.

The leader put his paw on my leg kindly and then sauntered back to where he had been sitting eating.

I didn’t know how to say Thank you in Rhesus. I know smiling wouldn’t cut it.

But boy was I grateful.

I was now an accepted member of the herd and had all the protections, too.

Wild. Literally.

From that study, we learned that 95% of the monkey infants’ food was fiber. And in captivity in the US, they were fed about 5% fiber.

c. GCYI

Sailing, Take Me Away to Where I’m Goin’

March 25th, 2013 . Posted in Role model, Traveling, Uncategorized | No Comments »
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While Gen Yeager was fishing in Mexico on a boy trip, I stayed in LA.

I headed to the ocean – I love the ocean even just looking at it, listening to it. God’s creation. Pure and powerful.

I found a place that rented sailboats. With some trepidation, I rented the boat and headed out.

The last time I had sailed in Marina Del Rey, was years and years before in a catamaran I had rented on a busy weekend day.

I was enjoying zipping around until the big boats started coming in. Most of those skippers have no idea about right of way. So I was forced to come about, jive, all sorts of things to avoid them.

At one point, I was calling out: STARBOARD! and getting no response but getting squeezed by two boats converging.

To avoid one, and not hit the other, I capsized the boat. Fortunately it got enough attention so I was immediately rescued: it was the most excitement of the weekend or month, perhaps year, for them.

The funniest was, I had already put my life jacket under the end of the mast and swam back to the bottom of the boat, climbed on the centerboard and was trying to right the boat but I wasn’t heavy enough, when the harbor police, the last of those helping, came along. On their megaphone they said: Was there anyone else on board with you?

My impulse was to smack my forehead and say: I knew I forgot something! Where are those other people?

Of course, grateful for any and all help, I refrained.

I asked them to please grab the life jacket I had put under the mast, take it away, and lift up the mast to help me right the boat – which they did and the boat came up easily. Couldn’t do it by myself but just that little push…

I thanked them profusely. They came closer and tossed me the life jacket. (Putting it under the mast prevents the boat from turtling – ending upside down with a mast stuck in the mud – much much harder to right the boat – instead of on its side).

The good news was the activity had caused all boats to give us a very wide berth and of course, the perpetrators were long gone – they had powered up and ignored the wake rules in their effort not to get fingered and caught.

After I finished my sail and returned the boat, I went to the various responders’ offices and thanked each one. They were all shocked. No one had ever taken the time to thank them.

My response: Heck, I want you to not mind doing it again, if I need it!

We all laughed.

So this time, several years later, I rented a small sloop and, as I said, took the boat out by myself with great trepidation.

Small catamarans, the prior boat, can be hard to come about (turn across the wind). I didn’t know how this sloop would be. It did have a jib but the mainsail, the jib, the tiller would be a lot to manage all by myself.

The wind was just right. I zipped along but not too wildly.

I tried to heel (lean out to keep the boat level) but the problem with this boat was the tiller was not long enough and had no extension and I did not have Jerry West’s arms. So if I leaned out too much, it would bring the tiller toward me causing the boat to heel (lean) more.

I tacked all the way out to the entrance of the harbor where the rental company said was the best wind.

A few others, some faster, some slower, were tacking as well. I took it upon myself to dodge them rather than call Starboard or right of way. For me, courtesy depended more on the big picture – who had to divert off course the most.

When the other boat was on starboard but could have diverted just a little, but instead yelled starboard, I gave way saying: Yes I know – but I cut you a break when I was on starboard last tack.

He was showing off to his date, I suddenly realized. But I never had problems from him again.

When the other boats realized I was able to read the wind darn well, (my racing experience had kicked in), they started tacking when I tacked and essentially following me.

I got out to almost the end of the protected harbor and realized the wind wasn’t all that great out there, and someone was headed right at me, I tacked. Oops. I hadn’t seen the BIG boat bearing down on me from behind. It was the only time I hadn’t checked six. And that’s the one that….even thought I had right of way.

I zipped out of the way, waved a oops, sorry! The guy smiled and acknowledged he would have given way. I thought – if I were a fighter pilot – I’d be toast.  Or this would have happened in training. Once. Only once. :-) I’d like to think.

As time progressed and it all was coming back to me, I was having a great time.

Most people didn’t know right of way, but I was expecting that this time so was doing fine.

I saw a guy come in from the ocean and I asked about the winds out there. He said gusty, nothing steady.

That’s no fun so I stayed inside.

At one point I was going to jibe but wasn’t feeling too confident. Any sailor knows that most teachers scare their students re jibing – it can be dangerous if done too quickly or with gusty, changeable winds. One could capsize, head whacked, all sorts of things.

So the first time I wanted to switch directions heading downwind, I actually almost did a 360 by heading upwind and coming about.

That felt a little silly but hey that was my comfort zone. The wind was changing direction, too so I wasn’t sure when that sail would whip across if I had tried to jibe.

I got to a place where the wind wasn’t so hefty so this time I did a slow jibe…..

The sail wasn’t coming across, wasn’t coming across…..then it slowly came and sorta whipped but a gentle whip. Piece of cake.  Woo hoo!

It’s so peaceful to go sailing, yet exhilerating, if the right amount of wind. It’s especially peaceful to go sailing alone or with someone who isn’t chatty.

I rather missed Gen Yeager – he might have enjoyed it with me – there was enough wind.

I kept thinking of and mentally thanking my father for teaching me how to sail from the age of 3 or 4. Every summer he rented a sloop, big enough for 4 little kids (my 3 older brothers and me) and 2 adults. He kept it moored in the bay of a house across from the beach house.

The bay house was owned by an older guy who loved seeing us young, polite kids come around every non rainy day. The bay in those days was full of seaweed. I was always afraid of what was under that seaweed and sometimes had nightmares that some big crab or lobster bigger than me would bite my head off. Or my toe.

Sometimes the tide was out and we could walk out to the boat, more often we took a rowboat.

I was about 4-6 when Dad couldn’t grab the halyard. How would we raise the sail?

That day we were going on a long day sail across the bay to the great diner where we’d have hot dogs or hamburgers or grilled cheese. And great milkshakes. A special treat.

We were all waiting with great anticipation – afraid of any possibility we might now not be able to go – that our hero, our Dad, would figure it out, solve the problem, as he usually did.

Dad looked at me, the wheels turning, and lifted me up – just high enough. The line was swinging in the wind.

I missed the first pass. The second one…..GOT IT!

Dad: Hold on to it, Victoria, until I take it from you.

For my Dad, I held onto that line as though my life depended on it, knowing my Dad would hold onto me – I wouldn’t fall – until I was safe.

It’s one of my early memories where I had done something very helpful and important for my Dad. And Dad made me feel awfully proud of my contribution to our sail that day. I saved the day. And the milkshakes. With Dad’s help.

And I have continued enjoying sailing to this day.

c. GCYI

My First Duck Hunting Adventure

March 25th, 2013 . Posted in Adventures in food, Childhood friends & neighbors, Conservation, Food, Friends, Humor, Huntin', Hunting, Uncategorized, Wildlife | No Comments »
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I was visiting family friends in the south of England. The father of the family invited me to go duck hunting with him and his youngest son age 12. I was thrilled – a completely new adventure. I had never been hunting before.

His oldest son, when he heard, said, “Do you know what you’re getting into? I don’t think you’ll like it.”

The oldest son knew my sensitivities so wasn’t wrong but my curiosity was greater than any squeamishness. I actually didn’t even think of the squeamy side till the older son said something.

Late afternoon, we drove to the pond. On the way, the father stopped and ordered the dogs to pick up the ducks in the road.

Someone had hit and killed the ducks and the father was not going to waste a good duck.

I thought he was kidding.

He wasn’t.

Last time I had seen roadkill, I was about 15, my friend and I had come upon the results of the accident: some baby possums or possi? squealing because I think their momma had been hit but the day old possums were lost without momma.

We avoided the mess, got to my friend’s house and called 911. I seem to recall that there wasn’t much sympathy. We didn’t know what to do, were desperate to save the babies but I had been brought up that wild animals could have disease or could bite or….so we tried to find someone official to do something.

Back in England: With the dead ducks now in the back, we continued to the pond where we met the other hunters in the club. The father put me in a blind with his younger son, age about 12, and the gameskeeper.

I was excited! This was so cool!

An English hunting experience. Just like the period movies.

No one had suggested I shoot – I had been pretty good with skeet and trap but that’s a far cry from actual ducks and other shooters…so I was quite happy to watch.

We waited.

And waited.

And….then the first flight of ducks came over. Bam! The father shot…and hit two with one shot.

At the same time I thought: Great shot/Oops. Ralph was right. Those birds are dead. Victoria, don’t get sick. Not good manners.

However, I am not a vegan, or vegetarian and love duck so I have certainly never been anti-hunting.

I kept quiet, watched the young son hesitate as well. Although encouraged by his father from another blind and the gameskeeper to get ready for the next flight of ducks, and to shoot, the young son – well, I don’t think he ever shot.

He seemed to always find a reason – something wrong with the gun, he was late to aim…

When it got too dark and the shooting ceased, we went to get the ducks. Or the dogs did.

One excited dog brought a duck, still alive, back in his mouth. The father instructed the young son, already squatting down and petting the duck, saying endearing things, probably already named it; to remove the duck and break its neck.

The father said it again.

I thought to myself, sadly for the father, I don’t think your second son is taking to duck hunting either.

At the same time, the retriever, thinking the young son was taking the duck, let it go. The duck landed on its feet facing away from the dog, shook itself, realized it was free, let out a quack/squawk and took off. We all jumped out of the way. That was a fast waddling sucker!

The dog, thrilled at the game, wagging its tail, chased after it

I confess: I think I joined the young son in silently rooting for the duck.

No such luck. The retriever lived up to its name and after giving the duck a playful head start, retrieved it.

This time the father grabbed the duck and started whacking it against the tree.

I realize now, having now hunted since then, that the reason the father didn’t wring its neck – I mean the duck’s – was because we were all too close and blood might have splattered us. (Or might have had his son or me uncontrollably screaming or blurting something like “GROSS!” or the English version which I won’t repeat, embarrassing him :-) Frankly neither of us would have dared).

This thoughtfulness was quite in keeping with the father’s character.

As the father started the first whack, I quietly turned away trying to hold onto my delicious (at least the first time) favorite meal: afternoon tea which included tea, tea sandwiches, and scones.

One of the other hunters was very kind – he took my attention away with humor by saying: Bet you want to do that to a few producers.

It sure took my mind off the poor duck and made me laugh.

We headed home.

Later that evening, I saw the ducks having been plucked and hung. The father pointed out the roadkill – it actually was the best looking of the plucked ducks. He distinguished the types of duck which I don’t remember now.

The older son asked me how, no, if, I had enjoyed the hunt.

I smiled: I enjoyed it. But, you’re right, I don’t think I’ll be taking up duck hunting any time soon. :-) (That was clearly more a function of means and opportunity as well as desire at the time, as later in life I have taken up huntin’, not hunting, with Gen Yeager).

What an outstanding adventure for me.

Since then, I have actually shot a few dove and quail and pheasant. I’m a pretty good shot – of course my instructor is the best – Gen Yeager.

Oddly, I’m a very, very good retriever – I can sight where the birds or animals go down and often do better than the dogs.

I was born, in Chinese astrology, in the Year of the Dog….hmmm.

c. GCYI

From Chuck Yeager: Working with the Maquis (Shot Down in France Part II)

March 23rd, 2013 . Posted in Historical, Uncategorized, World War II | No Comments »
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March 20 ’44 Spend most the day working on Gabriel’s old engine in the shed. Gabriel is happy I’ve got something to keep me busy. He thinks it will keep me busy the rest of the war – that it will never work.

March 20-21, ’44.Night: Gabriel knows I’m itching to do something in war. He has Raoul pick me up after dark. We ride bikes 2 his house-60 miles.At daylight:we sleep in hayloft.It’s got several areas of escape so I’m okay w/ this…And tired

March 21, 1944: When it got dark, we got the message:it’s raining.We bicycled to a large field.And waited….at a precise moment, everyone lit candles for 3 seconds. We waited….Then we heard an engine growing less feint…a bomber. Uh oh.

No one else was running or ducking….as it came closer, I realized it was one of ours -a British Halifax-4 engine prop bomber.

It’s slow & somewhat low.It’s dropping all sorts of bombs though…

Nothing exploded.

No, it’s canisters dropping, many of them.After the bomber drops its load, it powers up and gets the heck out of there while we all scramble to the field to gather the supplies as quickly as possible.

Those pretty precise drops are pretty nice “rain”.

We start hauling the cannisters out of the field. I want us to move faster but the cannisters are heavy: Every minute means the Germans have more opportunity to find us. And kill us. I keep scanning the perimeter while I work. I’ve got several escape routes into the woods mapped out in my head. I also watch the other workers. Never know when one will turn.
At the edge of the field we load up the oxen drawn carts. The drivers are going to take them to their destination to help the French Underground & Maquis as well as downed flyers. Ration cards, counterfeit money, identity cards, food, supplies, explosives, ammo…
Exhausted – when all is loaded up & the drivers on their way – Raoul and I bicycle home – his home.
Daylight is just around the corner but we make it back in time for a quick slice of bread his mother has made and some soup.
Then we hit the hay.
Literally.
In the hay loft.
Anticipating night and darkness for our next mission.
March 22,’44. Sleep most the morning. Mid-afternoon, I bicycle off to explore escape routes, hiding places.Possible huntin’ & fishin’. When I return, it’s turning dark. Two guys from last night show up w/ plastique explosives-part of supplies dropped-don’t know what they are or how to use them.Do I, the American, know?

c. GCYI

Gabriel – head of the Neracais French Maquis

March 19th, 2013 . Posted in Aviation, Food, Fresh vegetables, Hero, Historical, Role model, World War II | No Comments »
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Gabriel was larger than life.

Gabriel LaPeyrusse, Mayor of Nerac, head of the Maquis during World War II, was one of many who protected and saved my husband during World War II.

General Yeager and I visited his house recently. It’s a pretty and historic house with a large yard. The fields behind it used to belong to it. In 1944, it was considered on the outskirts of town. Now it’s pretty well within the center.

A perfect cover. Gabriel was a farmer and had the first space at the Saturday market. Easy place to meet naturally.

Gabriel’s son opened up the house to us: showed us the house and the attic where General Yeager refused to hide those many years ago. Frankly, looking at it and only one way to get out, I don’t blame him! Not that I would 2nd guess a West Virginian evading a German….

Gabriel’s son then showed us some of Gabriel’s medals and honours. So fascinating.

I could only imagine as I looked at the tree under which General Yeager, having been shot down during World War II, and in hiding from the Germans, sat so many years ago and quietly held his breath as the German soldiers marched by.

On a Saturday, we visited the market where Gabriel had sold his vegetables. We spoke to his neighbor in the booth next door, who was old enough to remember those days as a kid helping his father. He told us how messages were passed along.

The town square where the market starts is where we often came for fresh croissants during our visit.

I imagined myself back in 1944 – funny I often imagine those days in black and white because the photos are mostly black and white – how it must have been, trying to save La France, live as normal a life, appear to live as normal a life, while doing all one could to expel the Nazis.

Gabriel made it all work – he, as Mayor, had to interact at a high level with the Nazis. And at the same time organize and mobilize his network of Maquis and Underground.

The French in that area helped over 1600 American airmen to safety over the Pyrenees.

We visited the churches Gabriel would have visited.

And we visited his grave. A beautiful grave.

I started to ask a question, looked over at General Yeager and decided to not interrupt his private moment.

Pretty monumental to stand next to the grave of the man who watched over you, kept you safe, and saved your life over the course of several weeks.

We all thank Gabriel, from Chuck Yeager’s Mom, Dad, Grandpa Yeager, Grandma Yeager, family, brothers, sister, Glennis, friends, fellow airmen, the Air Force, Larry Bell, his squadrons, fans. And I.

When Gen Yeager returned to visit Gabriel in 1956, it was indescribable. Imagine. Gabriel, the man who saved his life, seeing his special charge, and his special charge had proven all the dangers were worth it perhaps even more.

One of the people who had seen the parachute coming down when she was four with her brother who was six said to me in French: Yes, he was definitely worth saving….

I waited. I thought she was going to mention all the accomplishments Gen Yeager had achieved – breaking the sound barrier and far, far more….

She continued: Sooooooo handsome.

I smiled in agreement that he was soooooooo handsome but I also confess I had an irreverent thought: Thank goodness he wasn’t ugly then.

At the graveyard, another man came over – he was the keeper. He had known Gabriel. When he saw us paying our respects, his eyes welled up, too.

Gabriel was a hero to many, many people. Courageous, clever at maneuvering amongst the different factions, and a vivacious lover of life. He knew it could be short.

c. GCYI

From Chuck Yeager. 1944 Shot down France

March 17th, 2013 . Posted in Aviation, Fishing, Flying with Chuck Yeager, Historical, Uncategorized, World War II | No Comments »
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March 4, 1944 1st daylight raid over Berlin. Weather was stinkin’. Only 2 P-51s guarding a box of bombers. They hit their targes. I shot down my first enemy aircraft (a/c). Woo hoo.

I was out of ammo returning home. I espied the stragglers of the bombers in formation heading home. I called ahead. “Can I form up with you, I’m out of ammo and could sure use some protection.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t let your trigger guys shoot me down.” You see, P-51s looked somewhat like German aircraft. Me -109, FW 190.

I formed up. We got home safe.

March 5, 1944: This time we headed to Bordeaux – to bomb a factory. Weather was still stinkin’. We could not see the target so we headed east for a target of opportunity. I was tail-end Charlie, called out bandits at 6:00 and turned into them. Three of them and I did a head on pass.

They won.

I didn’t have to climb out of my a/c – it was falling apart all around me. I stepped off. And free fell for 25,000′.

At around 6000′, I pulled the chute. It…..

opened.

As I floated down, I headed for the forest, grabbed a sapling and rode it to the ground. Just like West Virginia.

I gathered the parachute up, couch-walked in the woods a few miles – had to get away from where I came down in case anyone saw me – and hid.

Ain’t a German in the world can catch a West Virginian in the woods.

As I sat and assessed my situation, I noticed I was wounded, so I opened my survival kit, got out the sulfa powder and put it on my wounds – groin area, hands.

I slept a little.

March 6, 1944: In the morning, I heard a rhythmic banging. I crawled to where I could see – it was a woodsman chopping wood.

We played charades – he didn’t speak English, I didn’t speak French. Told me to wait right there- he would be back.

I moved off 20 yards, repositioned with protection from and a good view of where I had met the woodsman.

He returned with 2 men, whispering: American, where are you?

I sussed them out – they were unarmed and not menacing so I presented myself.

They took me to a Russian lady who spoke English. She ran a sort of hotel.

Her first words: Has America run out of men already that they have to send boys?

When I didn’t respond, she said, Are you married?

Me: No.

RL: “Aha! You are wearing a ring!” as she pointed at my right hand.

I looked; then explained: that’s my high school ring.

RL: That’s your wedding ring finger.

Mr: In America, we were the wedding ring on the left hand.

I guess I pass – not a German trying to infiltrate the Maquis. They give me civilian clothes and hide me in the barn. Some Germans poked in the hay, but I was about as far back as one could get. Just hoping they’d miss. Glad now of the lack of food and being skinny – they can tease me about being skinny all they want  - maybe the pitchfork will go either side of me and I’ll have the last laugh.

They told me to rest up – that night they were taking me to another hide-out.

Good – this one was dicey. But the Germans had already been so probably wouldn’t be back….

March 6, 1944 evening: dark

We ride off on bicycles: make it as far as Castaljaloux where they put me in a house for the rest of the night and the next day.

March 7, 1944 evening

At night, a couple of men take me to a farm where I spend a week with a young couple with a young son. It’s off the beaten path. The house is beyond some tall hedges and fairly far in from the road.

Again, I slept in the barn. It was a young couple with a young son named Jean about age 6.

March 8, 1944. Jean and I played soccer. Then he took me to a little lake where we fished. I’m alert. The Germans are probably still on the prowl looking for me. If I am caught, not only I, but this family too, would be tortured and killed. They are truly risking their necks for me and I sure appreciate it.

March 9-10, 1944. More soccer, more fishing. Jean’s mother makes a shirt from my parachute for me. I must admit with the clothes they have given me, especially the beret, I do look French.

March 11, 1944: I’m getting a little antsy. Will I spend the rest of the war here? Was it still going on? What was happening?

March 12, 1944: Staying in one spot too long can be wearing on a family. The tension and risk grows daily.

March 13, 1944. I’m glad to be able to provide some food for the family by fishing. But the days are long. It’s quite cold – a very frigid winter here. I’m used to cold – West Virginia can be freezing in the hollers in the winter. No sun at all. I always say I was born so far up a holler, they had to pipe daylight in.

March 14. They tell me to get some rest. I’m leaving tonight. Jean looks a little sad – his adult friend is leaving.

March 15, ’44.Dr. Henri & I bicycle all night, sleep in the woods during the day. Then bicycle to get to the outskirts of Nerac. Dr. Henri (Cahn) leaves me with Gabriel LaPeyrusse. Gabriel hides me in his barn.

March 16, ’44. They want to hide me in the attic. No way. No way out and probably 1st place Nazis would look. I stick to the barn. For now.

March 17, ’44: Sitting around waiting. Gabriel is Mayor of Nerac & head of the Maquis & French Underground. He brings his vegetables 2 market every Saturday. Another has radio, brings Gabriel at market, the week’s messages.

March 18, ’44: I venture a little closer to the road – watch the passersby from under the shade of the tree, think about my next move. How am I going to get back to Americans and on combat?

March 18, ’44: As I’m sitting under the tree at Gabriel’s house, a large group of German soldiers marches by. I don’t move a muscle.

March 18, ’44: After German soldiers are gone, I breathe again. Gabriel, apoplectic, makes it clear: if I don’t keep in hiding, “You & me!” & he slides his finger across his neck. Gulp.

March 18, ’44 I went back to the shed. I’m just not good at sitting around but torture or getting my benefactor killed isn’t my idea of a good time either.

March 19, ’44: I notice in the shed Gabriel had a single cylinder engine that wasn’t working. So I set to it. As a kid, my Dad came home to see me amongst a lot of pieces of an engine. “Son, you gonna be able to put that back together?” Me: Yes, I took it apart, didn’t I?” And as promised, I put that one back together running smooth.

Please visit Part II

c. GCYI

Did You Have the Best View? World War II

March 6th, 2013 . Posted in Aviation, Flying with Chuck Yeager, Historical, Humor, World War II | No Comments »
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‎Two years ago, General Yeager and I met a couple, about 86 at the time, who had been having a tryst in a barn on March 5, 1944 before they were married.

The husband was avoiding being conscripted by the Germans so they had to meet clandestinely.

They saw General Yeager’s plane, after he and it were shot down, as, pilotless, in pieces, it raced to the ground.

So we were filming their story. We asked her if when the camera rolled, she would tell this story.

She hesitated. She really didn’t want to let the world know that her husband and she had been fooling around before they were married.

I told her – ah but no, it’s a love story. You got married 3 months later and are still together 66 years later.

To encourage her, I called General Yeager over and translated they she and her husband, before they were married were having a tryst which was interrupted by the plane careening to the ground near them.

Without skipping a beat, with that mischievous twinkle in his eye, CY said: Did you have the best view? Were you on the bottom?

When I translated, the woman giggled :-)  Only Gen Yeager could get away with that.

Hilarious.

c. GCYI

March 6, 1944

March 6th, 2013 . Posted in Daily Life with Chuck Yeager, World War II | No Comments »
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At night, a couple of men take me to a farm where I spend a week with a young couple with a young son. It’s off the beaten path. The house is beyond some tall hedges and fairly far in from the road. I spend a lot of time playing soccer with their young son. I learn a little French.

I’m alert. The Germans are probably still on the prowl looking for me. The young mother makes a shirt for me out of the parachute material. I’m given a beret. I look rather French in my outfit actually.

The couple is risking their necks to keep me safe. It’s fairly cold winter but I’m used to it – West Virginia could be frigid.

c. GCYI

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