A Ferry Tale
Retired Air Force Col. C.L. Carson now lives in Fort Worth, Texas, with his loving spouse, Evelyn. He still believes in ferry tales.

Arriving at the bomber group in England's 8th Air Force on New Year's Eve in 1943, my objective was to finish my required missions before my wife was due to deliver our first child in May 1944. I volunteered to fly as a substitute crew member for any crew on every mission my squadron flew. As a result, I finished my tour May 8, having flown 30 missions in 90 days.

Instead of the expected reassignment stateside, I was assigned to the 312th Ferry Squadron at Langford Lodge in North Island for a three-month tour ferrying aircraft to the combat groups in England.

After I had flown a number of B-17s, I was told there was a P-51 Mustang at Wharton Air Depot that had to be ferried to a fighter group at Fowlmere.

Did they have a P-51 manual for me to read before the trip? No. Was there a fighter pilot on base who could brief me on the Mustang? No.

Because I had not flown a single-engine aircraft since basic training, could they assign someone else to the job? No. All the fighter pilots were out on ferry missions.

Alighting from the C-47 that flew me to Wharton, I proceeded to the brand new P-51 parked on the ramp. I asked the crew chief if he knew anything about such pertinent items as stall speed, power settings, and landing techniques. No.

I took off in a drizzling rain and climbed through the overcast. Leveling off at 12,000 feet, I flew for about 45 minutes, using a cruise power setting of 30 inches of mercury and 2,000 rpm, the fast-cruise-bomber settings.

Arriving over Fowlmere with clear weather, I let down into the traffic pattern for landing. Conversing with the tower officer, who was P-51-qualified, I had a speed course in landing procedures: flap settings, approach speed, etcetera. I leveled off too high and stalled it in, hitting the runway pretty hard in a three-point attitude.

Heaving a sigh of relief at being on the ground with no damage, I taxied to the end of the runway and turned off. Then, to my surprise, the engine quit cold. I called the tower to send a tug to pull me into the parking ramp.

The engineering officer met me and climbed up on the wing. When I opened the canopy, he asked, "What happened?"

"I dunno," I answered. "The engine just quit."

"Which gas tank were you using?"

"You mean there's more than one?" was my startled rejoinder.

After checking the cockpit, he announced that I was on the fuselage tank, which only held 75 gallons. I told him how long I had been airborne, and he opined that I should have run out of gas 15 minutes before I landed. Running out of gas in a high-performance aircraft can be very hazardous to your health. The fact that I had used a lower power setting than was customary for the P-51 had saved my neck.

The good Lord does, indeed, look after fools and dumb ferry pilots.