Pilot takes the helm of a B-24 one more time

BURLINGTON -- Charlie Taylor's hands, wrinkled and mottled, grasped the wheel firmly.

His feet, in old-guy black Rockports, moved the rudder pedals.

In his eyes was a look of fierce concentration.

On his face: a beatific smile.

The 88-year-old WWII pilot, who flew 36 missions in a B-24, took the controls of a restored bomber in the sky over Alamance County on Wednesday afternoon.

It was his first time in 64 years.

Both he and the plane may be shakier than they were six decades ago, but they performed well.

Taylor got to climb into the co-pilot's seat after his children and stepchildren chipped in to buy him a sponsorship of the unglamorous plane through the Collings Foundation.

The craft, known as the Liberator, was all but forgotten by Hollywood, which featured WWII being fought by the sleeker B-17 Flying Fortress, a more photogenic bomber.

In fact, though, far more B-24s than B-17s filled the air during World War II. They carried more bombs and were involved in some of the war's deadliest raids, most notably the near-suicide attacks on the oil refineries of Ploesti, Romania.

Few still exist. According to the Collings Foundation, their B-24 is the only one still flying.

"Most were melted down into toasters and cars," said Hunter Chaney, marketing director for the Massachusetts-based nonprofit dedicated to preserving planes and history.

The B-24 was rescued by Collings from a boneyard in India. Thanks to the encouragement and donations of a group of WWII vets, the foundation restored it to flying status in 1989. Since then the Liberator, as well as a B-17 and a P-51, have toured the nation, drawing crowds at small airports and luring aviation buffs into the air for $425 for a half-hour's ride.

On the planes, all the equipment, save for a modern GPS, is original. So is the ear-splitting noise of the four engines, the breeze that blasts through the thin, aluminum fuselage, and the cloying fragrance of engine oil and aviation-grade gasoline.

The goal is not just to let a dwindling population of veterans relive their past, but also to bring their war stories alive for their descendants. Taylor's son, two grandchildren and three great-grandsons joined him on the 45-minute flight from Burlington to Fayetteville.

Everyone's a kid again

Taylor's great-grandsons -- 13-year-old David Chappell and 11-year-old twins Justin and Andrew Scott -- climbed like monkeys in the tight confines of the B-24, peering out of the nose turret, wielding massive deactivated machine guns in the waist gunners' open-air portals.

Taylor's granddaughter, Karen Bass, snapped photos of her granddad at the controls.

Taylor, while thrilled with the flight, wasn't fully satisfied with his performance. He had trouble keeping the craft on a smooth, steady course. Then again, he was accustomed to being the pilot, sitting in the left seat of the cockpit, rather than on the right as co-pilot.

"It never did feel right having the throttle on the left," Taylor said, with a shake of the head.

When gas began to leak from a loose fuel cap and spray over the right wing, forcing the plane to turn back, Taylor only shook his head in exasperation.

"That happened to me several times!" he said, as if this were a design flaw he'd noticed over the last several months, rather than 11 presidencies ago.

He recalled having to fly back to his base in southern Italy during one of the raids on Ploesti. That day, he said, the air was so filled with the smoke of anti-aircraft fire they could scarcely find their way out of formation.

The Liberator landed in Burlington for a quick fix for the fuel cap before completing the trip to Fayetteville. For Taylor, the fuel leak only meant more time in the air, and at the controls.

"If I died right here today," he said. "I'd die a happy man."