NAME: Cliff Bennett
DATE ENTERED SERVICE: April 2, 1943
CAMPAIGNS: China-Burma-India, Air Offensive Japan, China Defense
DECORATIONS: Five Campaign Stars, Good Conduct Medal, Asia-Pacific Campaign Medal, Victory Medal
The story of the war in the China-Burma-India (CBI) Theater includes dramatic events such as the landmark battles of Merrill’s Marauders, the exploits of the Flying Tigers and their successors and construction of the Burma Road, to name but a few. For me, however, the most incredible tales are those of the men who routinely flew the supply route over the Himalayas, a massive 1,500-mile range of mountains with an average height of 20,000 feet that sat astride the supply route between India and China. Supplies flown over the “Hump,” as it was known to the GIs, kept the Japanese from knocking Chiang Kaishek’s China out of the war once and for all and transferring tens of thousands of their battle-hardened troops to defend islands across the Pacific.
No one took off on one of those flights without being aware of the considerable risk involved. The trips were long—about four hours—and the heavily laden planes all flew at near maximum altitude in order to clear the towering mountains, which included the 29,000-foot Mount Everest, the tallest peak in the world. Everyone knew that if a plane ran into any sort of trouble, there was almost nowhere to touch down safely. Added to this was the threat of Japanese fighter planes, which could make fast work of a lumbering transport.
I took my own ride over the Hump on January 29, 1945, following a year of service in India. There was a serious need for radio operators in China at the time. I was a point-to-point high-speed station radio operator assigned to the 159th Army Air Force Communications System. Rather than wait the war out in India, Dennis Wagner and I volunteered to fly the Hump and extend our service time in China.
The staging area for our flight was Chabua, India, near the foothills of the Himalayas. Wagner and I arrived there on January 26, 1945, to be processed and prepared for China duty after leaving our prior assignment. We each had a physical, received inoculations, were issued necessary uniforms and clothing items and were briefed on our trip over the mountains.
It was vitally important that we be made aware of survival procedures if it became necessary to leave the plane while in flight. We were told that while no problems were expected, losing planes on flights over the mountains was not unusual given the conditions. Our briefing certainly sobered us up, and we both experienced some difficulty getting to sleep in the days before we were to leave.
On the afternoon before our departure, 40 of us who were taking similar flights were assembled next to a Curtiss C-46 Commando. On the side of the plane was painted the name China Doll. Our group then received flight time notice, boarding instructions, routine flight information and a seating procedure from the crew chief who would accompany us. He made it clear that whoever sat next to the bailout door was expected to jump out quickly. If he did not, the crew chief would throw him out so that the others could escape.
We were awakened from our shallow sleep at about 10 p.m. that evening and transported to our plane an hour later. Once we reached China Doll we were given last-minute instructions, donned our chutes and entered the passenger cabin. In an orderly fashion we took our seats and leaned back against the bulkhead of the plane. It was silent. As fate would have it, I wound up being the lucky winner of the seat nearest the bailout door.
Shortly before midnight the plane headed down the runway. The nose pitched upward and we were soon on our way toward Kunming. Twenty minutes or so into the flight we were told to implement procedures that had been explained to us earlier. One was “lights out” for the remainder of the flight. Under no circumstances were we to use a flashlight. Any light could give us away to a lurking enemy fighter. One very small low-voltage orange light was lit in the cabin, however, above the doorway to the cockpit. We were also told to put on our oxygen masks.
Everyone was subdued, apprehensive. Since we were all wearing masks, none of us could talk with one another. Our ears were fixed on the drone of the two engines struggling to keep us aloft. Although familiar to the crew, the noise of what we took to be strain coming from the engines and the flapping of the wings as the plane bounced along on the air current set all of the passengers on edge. My eyes were glued to the bailout door, and my thoughts skipped between wondering what I would do if I had to jump and praying that I would not have to.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, the crew happily announced that we could remove our masks. The crew chief then told us to peer through our windows and look down. Below us we could see Kunming. The lights were on in the city, which was so far down it looked about as big as a dime. The plane then circled round and round, losing a little altitude with each circuit. Finally, at 3:30 in the morning, we touched down safely, much relieved that the time had arrived for us to get out. My place at the bailout door meant I was one of the first out. What I had viewed for hours as a curse was now a blessing.
In the years since that flight, my relief over what I had come through, and my admiration for the aircrews that made such daring flights as a matter of routine, has only grown. History records that the air route to fly supplies, equipment and military personnel over the Hump was the most hazardous of the war. Just flying the distance was a marvelous aeronautical feat. Not to be overlooked is that the success of these missions was due in large measure to the many thousands of extraordinary and courageous Army Air Forces personnel who flew them.
Originally published in the May 2006 issue of World War II. To subscribe, click here.
