 © Cydney Brooke McIntyre
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Operation Flying Chicken Click to read Click to |
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© Cydney Brooke McIntyre
|
Operation Flying Chicken Click to read Click to |
Operation
Flying Chicken
In 1954, during the Cold War, the people of communist Albania were starving, and the CIA,
to win them over, decided to airdrop food. To test the idea, the agency selected a drop
zone on a tiny Greek island in the Gulf of Corinth.
The drone from the twin engines of the Douglas c-47 quieted as I slowed the aircraft to ninety mph. The copilot’s voice came over the intercom: "We’re at 500 feet. Red light on. One minute to drop zone. Jump on the green light."
The big ship shuddered from the sudden blast of air when the jump door opened. Then the hellacious sound of squawking, screeching, and flapping of terror-stricken chickens filled the cabin. Sweating men cursed, tugged, pulled, and threw the reluctant jumpers out the door.
Smokey Kalbfan, our one-eyed jumpmaster, peered out through a wind-whipped, teary eye, then hurried forward to report. "Damn, captain, the slipstream ripped the chicken’s feathers off and filled the sky with little white fuzzy things."
"Did the chickens hit the target?"
"Yes sir! They hit dead center. But I’m afraid this was their first and last jump."
Below, the ground observers panicked and dove for cover as seventy-five naked chickens ricocheted off olive trees and ancient stone ruins, splattering across the landscape.
Undaunted, our superiors ordered seventy-five more chickens tied in heavy paper bags for the airdrop. They reasoned that the aircraft’s slipstream would tear the bags off, leaving the chickens in full dress and able to glide down to a graceful landing.
Over the drop zone again, our men hurled the brown-bagged chickens out the door. Smokey Kalbfan came forward to report. "Holy cow, captain! The slipstream’s wind stripped the bags and feathers off those chickens like banana peels. The last thing I saw was the whole bunch of nude chickens plunging down through a cloud of feathers and shredded brown paper."
Next, orders came through to rig seventy-five chickens with parachutes attached to static lines and secure the birds in sturdier paper bags. The CIA had clever cold war strategists plotting moves and countermoves against the Soviets. They figured the bags would survive the slipstream blast long enough for the static lines to automatically open the chutes. Thus, our free world chickens would retain their feathers and float majestically down into the arms of the joyous Albanians. The Albanians would be so grateful they would rise and throw off the yoke of their communist oppressors.
I visualized seventy-five frantic chickens sitting on both sides of the ship, nervously checking their parachute harnesses and static lines. Perspiring profusely in their bags, they would wait for the green light and final slap on the back and the shove out the door.
When I told Smokey, he blew up. "The agency wants chickens in parachutes? What will those crazy bastards dream up next? I’ve rigged chutes for the 101st Airborne in France, smoke jumpers in Montana, and communication teams here in Greece, but I never thought I’d be rigging parachutes for chickens."
Smokey did a masterful job fitting chutes on those chickens. When we arrived over the island, Smokey and his crew threw each chicken out of the jump door, leaving behind only a fading squawk and a static line.
Smokey ran to the cockpit, "That was the damnedest thing I ever saw, captain! The slipstream ripped the bags and all their feathers off, just like I thought. The static lines yanked the chutes open, but those chickens were too slippery—they popped out of their harnesses like they were greased. The sky is full of feathers and tiny white parachutes. And about now seventy-five chickens are hitting the drop zone."
When we landed in Athens three men wearing dark shades and suits met our plane. They were agency staff from the Albanian desk, anxious to know the test results. Our long faces gave them their first clue, and the seventy-five tattered static lines dangling from the jump door told the rest of the story.
The Company finally gave up. They had to admit that the starving Albanians were not going to get any relief from "flying chickens."
Profile
Russ is retired and spends his time writing stories "for his family." He also takes classes—everything from foreign languages to wood carving. He also continues to earn "psychic income" by doing volunteer work, like being a docent at Wildlife Safari. Russ defines "docent" as an ancient Swahili word meaning "do it for free."
Russ has worked as fire fighter and park guide. He has flown over the Burma Hump, worked for the CIA, and taught forestry at Umpqua Community College. These jobs took him all over the world, and he continues to travel. He and his wife are avid Elderhostelers. On his last trip to Germany, Russ was so thoroughly at home in his lederhosen that both tourists and locals assumed Der Kapitan was a guide. The tourists asked lots of questions and kept pressing money into his hands.
—Sybilla A. Cook
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