A Short Story By: Edward Carchia


I was on duty at the 602nd TCS, Det A, a small radar unit remotely located on the Czech border near  Hof, Germany when the first C-47 of the Airlift passed onto our watch. In a moment, our priority changed from "the other" to "our own".Approximately a year later, I helped guide the last of a seemingly endless stream of dots to its destination in the Northeast.     One memorable rainy night remains a half century later. One of the fragile specks of light veered  sharply toward a line on the screen marking the edge of the air corridor. The aberration was not unnoticed by the pack of Migs that periodically swarmed out of Leipzig. The images converged before we could scramble our own fighter planes to the scene. The words "Mayday... Mayday" were recited through our loudspeaker more, it seemed, in disappointment than anxiety. Then the dot disappeared from the scope.   The next day  we went out to the crash site by  jeep. Parachutes reassuringly draped a rainsoaked field nearby. The crew had survived.
Edward Carchia