Retired Col. Gail Halvorsen was perhaps the most famous pilot of the Berlin airlift. While delivering supplies to the Templehof airport during 1948 and 1949, Halvorsen began parachuting packages of chewing gum and chocolates to Berlin children, earning him the nicknames, "The Candy Bomber," "Uncle Wobbly-Wings," and "Der Schokoladen Flieger" (The Chocolate Pilot). Halvorsen was interviewed by the COLD WAR production team in December 1995.

On joining the airlift:

I volunteered to fly the airlift. I went early July 1948 to Rheinmein. Started flying out of there, about three round trips a day at first, because we just didn't have enough aircraft to fly in the 4,500 pounds that was needed for a survival diet, so we were flying three round trips a day when it started.

I thought it would be two or three weeks at the most. I thought: Our [rotations] are for 28 days, so it couldn't be longer than 28 days [that] this thing would last. ...

On piloting during the airlift:

It was a crazy approach [to Templehof airport]. Hitler built the runway too short for us, and we had to come right over these old bombed-out buildings, come down very quickly and get on the ground. And with the load we had it was a real challenge. And of course in [bad] weather it was a special challenge coming over the bombed-out buildings. Later on we got a runway between the buildings and that was easier access.

I think the worst cargo I ever flew was 50-gallon drums of gasoline. These were miserable to handle. And we thought, "Man, if you're ever going to run off the end of the runway, don't run off with this load of dynamite." You know, 50-gallon drums of raw gasoline, just loaded, and it's hard to ... tie 'em down: they're slick. Boy, they're difficult to hold, and so we had all kind of chains and things around 'em and in bad thunderstorms ... we were just hoping that the ropes would hold and these things wouldn't start beating out the sides of the fuselage. But that load of raw gasoline in drums was the biggest concern.

The best load we ever had was a load of bottled milk: fresh whole milk for the kids in Berlin, and that was great. They'd rattle back there when you made a bad landing, but [we] didn't mind that at all. We flew everything: medical supplies, newsprint -- but the coal was the biggest thing, and it was the biggest problem, too, for the control columns in the airplane. Of course they had it in bags. ... The coal dust would seep in on the floors and control cables [and] make it difficult to control the airplane. And the same with flour dust. So we flew with our escape hatches out in the back, [to] suck out the dust. But still, after a while we had to send them back to have the control system completely cleaned out. But whatever happened, we'd fly it, and whatever they put on there, we gave it a whirl.

[There were] searchlights at night in your eyes coming in [on] the approach. Firing and night-firing in the corridors, and just harassment. I didn't have any shells bursting by my airplane. But you could see the ground fire. ...

We'd come through the corridor and were flying over fighter fields ... loaded with Yaks [Soviet fighter jets], as many as [the Soviets] could get onto the field. You'd come up and a Yak would come head on with you, right nose-to-nose and [at] the last minute would peel off, or come up behind you so you couldn't see him, and then come up over the wing. But they didn't shoot. And the reason they didn't shoot is that President Truman had brought in 60 some odd B-29s, put 'em on the strip in Great Britain and said, "Hey, Stalin, you know where we can carry these things. Keep your cotton-picking hands off those airplanes."

On the German people:

My feelings weren't too good toward the Germans from day one. With all the problems that we'd had with the war and so forth. ...

[But after] the first landing at Tempelhof with a load of flour ... we came out the cockpit and watched them unload. And before they unloaded they came up to us, almost [with] tears in their eyes, and looked at us like we're angels from heaven. [They] put out their hands, and we didn't understand a word of the language but we understood the feeling. And it was a most unusual feeling, one that turned [my thinking] around completely after just about two trips into Berlin. [It became clear] that we were working for a common cause, that we're [all] people, that human beings, no matter what side of the border you live on, the spirit's there. That people are people; it's the system that gets us fouled up.

It was a [feeling] that I guess it's hard to explain. It's one that you don't often receive: feeling good about a really rough situation. ... Working for a common goal, day and night, through thunderstorms and bad weather, whatever. ... Doing something for somebody that not only appreciates [it], they're just loving what you're doing and you for doing [it]. So it was a great feeling. It was a tough time, but that kind of feeling kept the people dedicated day and night to what they were doing. Without complaint. I didn't hear any pilot complain about flying all night or the storms. ...

On how he became the "candy bomber":

One day I thought, "This thing's going to be over [soon]," and I wanted to get some footage [of Berlin]. So instead of going to bed for the six hours I had, I just jumped on my friend's airplane at noon one day, headed back to Berlin, started shooting movies at the fence at Tempelhof. ...

But I went back to Berlin, to get this picture, inside the barbed wire. Kids came up on the other side of the barbed wire [and] looked at me in [my] uniform. ... They came up and started talk to me: "How many sacks of flour have you got?", you know, "How's it going to be tomorrow? More airplanes?"

They'd tell me they kept a list, how many airplanes would come in every day, and week-to-week. But they got off the subject of flour very quickly [and onto] the subject of freedom. "Look," [one of them] said. "Some day we'll have enough to eat. Just give us a little. Just don't give up on us when the weather gets bad. But we can get along without enough to eat. Some day we'll have enough. But if we lose our freedom we may never get it back."

And these kids were 8 to 14 years old and blew my mind with their maturity [and] understanding of what was important. They'd seen enough of Hitler; they saw what Stalin was doing across the border; their aunts and uncles were coming into West Berlin to use the library to find out what's going on in the world; they couldn't travel; they didn't have their church opportunities. So these kids had a real understanding of what was important in their life and they wanted freedom like Americans.

I was so engrossed in what they were saying that I'd forgotten that I had a jeep waiting for me. ... And [I said] "Holy cow, kids, I gotta get out of here. I got a jeep waiting, I want to get to Brandenburg Gate, the Reichstag and Hitler's bunker and, er, sorry, but I got to run." I started to run, and I got just about five steps and a little voice [in my head] said, "Hey these kids are really different. How come?" I said [to myself]: "Well they got a postgraduate degree in international relations. They're not out of grammar school." I took off, [then the] voice came back: "Wrong answer." And then I remembered I [had] flown South America and Africa during the war; and they had lemon candy, but the kids would chase you in gangs and surround you and shake it out. [They would say]: "You're a rich American. You're a drug store pipeline. We want some of that stuff." Obnoxious. And these [German] kids, 30 of them, hadn't had gum and candy for months. And yet not one would lower themselves and become a beggar -- hold out their hand and say, "Hey," you know, "give me, give me something so extravagant as gum and candy." They were so grateful for food [and] to be free that they wouldn't be beggars. And it blew my mind. First group during the war or postwar situation I'd seen like that.

So I reached in my pocket instinctively; I had two sticks of gum. [And if you have] two sticks [for] 30 kids, [there would be] fight, bloody noses everywhere ... So I took the two sticks, broke it in half, [handed] four pieces through the barbed wire to the kids that were translating for me. And boy, no fight. They came in close, but no fighting. And then the kids that didn't get any, they wanted part of the wrapper. So the other kids tore off the outer wrapper and then the tin foil and passed it around and they smelled it, [and] wow! Their eyes got big, like they remembered when they could have gum. And I couldn't believe it. I just was amazed at what the smell of a wrapper meant. ...

So I said to the kids, "Come back here tomorrow and when I come in I'm going to drop enough gum for all of you to have a full stick, if you'll share it. Promise [that] whoever catches it [will] share it." They had a consultation: "Jawohl, jawohl, we'll share it." And so with that I took off, [but] they called me back and said, "Look, wait a minute, we got to know which one airplane you're in. Every three minutes there's an airplane landing. If you don't come till late in the day we'll get cross-eyed, we won't be able to see anything, let alone a little package of gum and candy. What airplane are you in?" [I said]: "I don't know. Whatever one's ready."

And then I remembered when I learned to fly in Utah. [When I] flew over the farm, to let my Dad and Ma know it was me up there, [I would] wiggle the wings of the airplane back and forth. And I said, "Look kids, when I come over Tempelhof, over the radio beacon in the middle of the field at 1,500 feet, watch all those airplanes: When I come over I'm going wiggle the wings of this big old four-engined airplane, and that's [me] -- just watch that one." "Ha," they said, "Great. Get out of here. Let's start this thing."

So we went back. ... Next time, just before noon, clear day, [I] looked down there, [and] there were those 30 kids: they hadn't told another soul. I wiggled the wings of the airplane and they went crazy. They came over the bombed-out building on the end of the runway, right over the top of the building. They were waving, with [their] faces up and their hands up; [I] pushed [the candy] out of the flare chute, the emergency chute behind the pilot -- and didn't know what happened. [The plane had] no rear view mirror -- [it was] not very sophisticated. And we unloaded 20,000 pounds of flour, taxied out, [took] off ... and there were the kids, three arms through the barbed wire, waving the parachute at all the airplanes. ... I knew then that they'd caught it.

On how his "candy bombing" began to gain attention:

Well, the [kids] were out there every day. But we didn't want to tell anybody about it. [They were out there] waving every day. [There were] a few more kids, so [with the] next week's ration we did it again. And the third week we did it again, [and there was a] big crowd. ...

I had to run into operations to check the weather one day, went in there, and there was a huge stack of mail on top of the planning table, almost to the ceiling. I went up to see what it was, and it says "To Uncle Wiggly-Wings, Tempelhof, Base Operations." "Der Schokoladen Flieger, Tempelhof, Base Operations." [I said to myself], "Holy cow! We're in real trouble." I left there -- forgot about getting the weather -- and told the guys: "We gotta stop."

Well, we stopped for two weeks and then we'd saved two week's ration and said [to ourselves], "Once more, and that's all." And those were dangerous words. We dropped 'em, six parachutes, [to a] big crowd of kids. Next day we landed after ... flying back into Rheinmein. An officer met the airplane, came steaming on board, [and] he said, "Who's flying this airplane." And both my comrades said, "He's flying the airplane. Why?" He says, "Col. Hahn wants to see you, right now!" I went to see Col. Hahn and for 15 minutes I thought I was going home early. He really chewed me up. And then he reached in the cabinet, pulled out a newspaper, and there on the front page was an airplane with parachutes coming out of it. He said, "You almost hit a German newspaperman on the head with a candy bar in Berlin yesterday, and he's got this story all over the world." He said, "The general read it and called me to find out what was going on. I didn't know anything about it. I'll never get promoted. Why didn't you tell me?" I said, "I didn't think you'd approve it, sir." He says, "You're right! But the general thinks it's a good idea. Keep doing it."

Well, from then on I went crazy. My buddies gave their rations or handkerchiefs [for parachutes]. [When we] ran out of handkerchiefs, [and] kids in Berlin heard about that, they sent back the old ones for refills. And we got the mail in Berlin, had two translators that they gave me [to] read it and answer the mail. People in the States read about it, and in England, Great Britain heard, even as far as Australia. ...

And it just went bananas from there. We got the letters translated and they sent back form letters, and this took care of most of them. But some of the special letters that came in, one was from a girl named Mercedes, she says, "I'm 7 years old, but my mother's doing all she can to keep us going during the blockade. And the problem is we've got some white chickens in our back yard and they're not laying eggs because you fly right over our chicken coop to land. We're on the final approach in the Tempelhof and that's bad news." She said, "When you see the white chickens, though, drop [the candy] there. I don't care if it scares them." Well, I couldn't find the white chickens, so I took a big package of gum and candy and mailed it ... within the city to Mercedes. Many years later, when I went back as the commander of Tempelhof in Berlin in 1970, I had an invitation to come to dinner. [When I] finally was able to accept in 1972, [I] went upstairs, and it was an apartment, and this lady opened the apartment, [and then] the door of a china cabinet. [She] handed me a letter and says, "Read this." It was dated 1948. And it says, "Dear Mercedes, I can't find your white chickens." And this was 1972. She says, "Come over here and I'll show you where the white chickens were."

To this day [I have] contacts with Berlin [from the airlift]. It has been amazing. One letter was from a boy named Peter Zimmerman, and Peter says, "Hey," he says, "I'm 9 years old but I can't run very fast. I got short legs. I'm not catching any of the stuff." He says, "I saw one the other day, a parachute, and here it is." He had a parachute in there and he had a map. He says, "Look, when you take off and leave Tempelhof, go down to the canal, the second bridge, turn right, one block. I live in a bombed-out house on the corner in the backyard. I'll be there every day at 2 o'clock, drop the stuff there." And I tried to, [but] it kept missing. Finally, Peter wrote me a letter and said, "Look," he said, "you're a pilot, I gave you a map, how did you win the war anyway?" Well, Peter became a good friend -- he's [and] American citizen now. ...

On the success of the airlift:

I just firmly believe that the Berliners were the heroes. They slept in bombed-out buildings, they slept without heat and with lights only for an hour or two ... not enough to eat -- but not one would complain. The Soviets offered them food rations: "Hey, we'll give you all you want. Just sign up with us." And only 4 percent of the total population of Berlin capitulated and asked for help from the Soviets. They were determined, they said, "It's freedom or else."