Takeoff for Operation Lipizzaner, as Phil was calling it, was precisely at 0400 hours on Tuesday, April 3. General O’Daniel and Colonel McGarr were both there to see him off and wish him luck. “Find those horses,” was Iron Mike’s last command.[1]

Phil and the pilot were not to exchange names or any personal or military information about each other. “Mission talk only,” growled O’Daniel.

The flight was surprisingly uneventful, and the pilot, obviously an expert, darted in and out of the moonlit clouds. Phil calmed his anxiety by staring at the semi-dark mountainous landscape passing underneath them at their leisurely cruising speed of eighty miles an hour—and by saying a silent prayer or two.

Fortunately, they encountered no flak, for which Phil was grateful. He even caught forty winks, but he was awakened when the pilot called out, “Hey, buddy! Wake up!”

Phil sat up and rubbed his eyes. The first rays of the sun were lighting up the landscape.

“We should be close,” the pilot said. “Help me keep an eye out. I’m going to fly a bit south of the coordinates and then turn back and forth, working our way north, until we see something.”

“How’s our fuel?”

“Don’t ask. We need to find the strip pretty soon. Remember, look for something straight. Nature doesn’t make straight lines; men do. Look for fire, smoke, or a pattern in the landscape.”

Phil was now wide awake, straining his eyes, front to back, side to side. They made a couple of passes back and forth, spotting a small town that the pilot assured him was Hostau.

“Should be a bit northwest of here,” the pilot said.

A shrill buzz filled the cabin, causing Phil’s heart to skip a beat. He noticed a red light blinking on the control panel. “What’s that?” he asked.

“That’s our almost-out-of-fuel signal,” the pilot replied in a strained voice.

Phil felt his chest and throat tighten. His observation was even sharper as he scanned the landscape. Phil thought he saw something unusual. He rubbed his eyes and focused his gaze.

“There!” Phil yelled. “Five o’clock. A fire.”

Off their right wing was a field with a small campfire burning on the border of the woods.

“I see it! There’s the strip!” Phil called out. There were also a series of lanterns along the forest edge.

“Dumbasses,” the pilot snarled. “Should have put the lanterns more in the open. Had we come from the other direction, we’d have never seen ’em.”

He banked the plane to the right as the engine began to sputter. The incessant high-pitched buzzing continued as the plane quickly dove. When the engine came to a sudden stop, the propeller stilled. They were now gliding.

With his extensive glider experience, Phil quickly calculated their ground speed, elevation, rate of descent, and distance to the landing field.

“We’ll make it!” he shouted.

“How the hell do you know that?” the pilot barked.

“One year of glider training.”

The treetops were getting closer and closer.

“Better say your prayers would be my advice. We hit those trees, and it’ll be bad.”

Phil felt calm. “Nah. You’ve got it.”

But his apprehension and heart rate increased when the Cub’s wheels clipped the last tree’s top branches at the forest’s edge. The pilot pulled up the nose just before a bumpy landing in a farm field.

“Damn! That was close!” the pilot muttered. “But we’re safely down.”

Several men in dark overcoats rushed toward them, carrying rifles. Phil’s hand instinctively reached for his holstered Colt 45.

“Hope those guys are friendly,” Phil said.

He would soon find out.[2]

TO BE CONTINUED:

• (Part 1) — A secret mission to save the Lipizzaners
• (Part 2) — A secret mission to save the Lipizzaners
• (Part 3) — A secret mission to save the Lipizzaners
• (Part 4) — A secret mission to save the Lipizzaners
• (Part 5) — A secret mission to save the Lipizzaners

~~~~~

~~~~~

[1] Larimore, At First Light, 227.

[2] Ibid, 227-228.

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