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Yeager Will Get it (P-80) Back (in one piece)

June 11th, 2013 . Posted in Aviation, Aviation Maintenance, Flying with Chuck Yeager, Test Pilot | Comments Off on Yeager Will Get it (P-80) Back (in one piece)
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I wasn’t so thrilled when I was shot down to say the least, but because I survived and was an evadee,  after the war, I got my pick of airbases. I chose Wright Field in Dayton, OH because it was the closest to home, Hamlin, West Virginia.

There was an opening as Maintenance Officer in the Fighter Test section so they assigned me there.

I flew everything – I had to fly the airplane to check what was wrong & then afterwards, of course, I had to fly the airplane to check we had fixed it – so I knew more about the P-80 than the 5 test pilots :-).

One day, General, then Colonel,  Boyd sent 5 test pilots & me to pick up 6 P-80s from Lockheed and fly them to Muroc Air Base (now Edwards AFB).

I flew all the P-80s because of maintenance issues so again, got the most experience.

When Col Boyd wanted a P-80 flown to Wright Field, against all the test pilots’ protests, he chose me. The test pilots, not about to give up, asked why me, a junior officer, not a test pilot….

Col Boyd replied simply: “Because he’ll get it there!”

When I got back, Col Boyd told me he wanted me to go to test pilot school.

I said: I only have a college education.

Col Boyd: I know a few guys who’d love to tutor you…heh heh….

Uh oh. Probably the same ones I kept beating out on choice assignments…

Col Boyd protected me though – he told me to stay close to Jack Ridley and made sure Jack Ridley watched over me in class together.

Thank goodness.

c. GCYI

I Learned Formation Flying with Chuck Yeager Before I Learned to Land

June 11th, 2013 . Posted in Flying lessons, Flying with Chuck Yeager, Formation Flying, Victoria D'Angelo | Comments Off on I Learned Formation Flying with Chuck Yeager Before I Learned to Land
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I learned to fly formation before I learned to land.

One just never knows when one will be called on to fly formation…

Although, in all those 70’s airplane disaster movies, I don’t remember in the panic anyone on the plane in distress ever yelling: Can anyone fly formation? It was always: Is there a doctor or Can anyone fly the plane to land it?

We had been invited to a huge July 4th party, on Lake “Owl Manure”. Huh? I thought, is it going to smell terribly? Why would they name a lake Owl Manure otherwise? To keep people away & overbuilding?

Four people were going so we flew in 2 two-seater little airplanes,

Gen Y thought it a good idea to use this flight to start teaching me to fly formation.

So after Gen Y took off 1st, then “jumped” our friend who had taken off 2nd (which is always just…so cool!), we flew our friend’s wing.

Before handing me the stick, Gen Yeager set us up in perfect formation on our friend’s wing and instructed: Now keep the wingtip lined up to the spinner. He set me up so all I had  to do was just hold it there re the other plane. Mmm hmm.

I did. However apparently there was a catch.

Gen Y: You’re getting out of formation!

Me: No, I’m not. I’ve got the wingtip lined up on the spinner.

Gen Y: Yeah, but you’re 100 yards away. We started at 15 yards.

If I had known then what I know now, I should have come back with: “He yawed back & forth.” (which means spread out).

But the truth was, at 15 yards, not very close for an experienced formation pilot like CY, was VERY CLOSE for a newbie – which I was…even though I knew CY was on top of it – he would have grabbed the stick if I had headed toward danger.

Gen Y set me up again. This time I stayed pretty tight but altitude maintenance became an issue:

Me: Gosh. I wish he’d fly straight & level. He’s all over the place! (meaning constant altitude changes). (Lead had never flown formation either).

I was and am such a source of amusement for CY.

CY replied: HE’S not.

Of course it was me overreacting to lead’s slight changes. :-)

I slowly got the hang of even small corrections – a bit like sailboat racing – can be HUGE.

c. GCYI

How Can I Bust my Butt, How can I Prevent It? Chuck Yeager’s Advice Re Flying: Rule 1:

June 11th, 2013 . Posted in Aviation, Flying lessons, Flying with Chuck Yeager, Role model, Test Pilot | Comments Off on How Can I Bust my Butt, How can I Prevent It? Chuck Yeager’s Advice Re Flying: Rule 1:
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From Chuck Yeager:

I used to & still do think: How can I bust my butt? How can I prevent it? The X-1 did not have any redundancy re ejecting the fuel. If you didn’t eject all the fuel before landing, you were landing a bomb with gear not stressed for the weight – so the X-1, with me in it, would probably blow up if fuel still on board.

And that’s not good.

To add to this, the system that allowed me to eject the fuel was electrical. Easy to lose functionality.

So I rigged a way to be able to manually eject the fuel.

The very next flight, I’m not kidding, the electrical system went out right after I was dropped. I did the flight profile and then used the manual fuel ejection.

I had had no way of testing it prior to this so hoped it worked. To find out, I stalled the airplane and checked the speed.

I descended some, checked the stall speed….

It was lower.

Phew! That meant the fuel was ejecting.

I stalled the airplane again. Stall speed was lower again.

When the stall speed equaled that of empty fuel, I went to the lake bed and landed.

Both the plane and I were able to fly another day. A pilot’s definition of an excellent landing.

c. GCYI

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 | Comments Off on Flying Helicopters in Australia with General Yeager
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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 | Comments Off on In Search of Chuck Yeager’s Evading Germans 1944
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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 | Comments Off on Nepal – Studying Monkeys
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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 | Comments Off on Sailing, Take Me Away to Where I’m Goin’
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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 went sailing with a bunch of guys up the Eastern seaboard. The stories he told such as running into Frank Sinatra with his entourage in Newport, RI. Frank was treating so the entourage was drinking Chivas Regal. The four years I went to camp in Cape Cod, Dad would show up with great fudge for my cabin mates and me. He was very popular especially because it was usually around the sixth week of eight so we were craving a treat. One time, I was called up to the office and I ran by a bearded man getting out of a car, I heard, “Tori! Tori!” I hesitated and slowly realized this was Dad! A very distinguished, proper man; I had never seen him with facial hair. He tells that story to this day.

When I was little, Dad would also rent a sloop big enough for 4 little kids (my 3 older brothers and me) and 2 adults for the summer on the Jersey shore. 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 when Dad couldn’t grab the halyard, the wind had blown it up and away. 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 to consider 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 – that I wouldn’t fall from that great height – 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 | Comments Off on My First Duck Hunting Adventure
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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 | Comments Off on From Chuck Yeager: Working with the Maquis (Shot Down in France Part II)
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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 | Comments Off on Gabriel – head of the Neracais French Maquis
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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

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