Crossing the Atlantic with the D-Day Squadron

Past our point of no return, with the ocean spread beneath us, dotted with sea ice and peril for hours on end, it seemed pointless to think about the identical waves a few miles behind; we must always be moving forward. But each of us, in our own way, was moved profoundly by the past, which is how we found ourselves crossing the North Atlantic in 1942 Douglas C-47 Skytrain Placid Lassie in the middle of May.

In a way, our mission had begun more than a decade prior, when Placid Lassie’s then-owner, James Lyle, decided to bring his C-47 to Europe for the seventieth anniversary of the D-Day invasion. His chief pilot, Eric Zipkin—also my dad–was awestruck by the experience, but disappointed that just two American C–47s had made it for the celebrations. After all, what message would we be sending, both to our fellow Americans and to the Europeans we had fought alongside in the not-so-distant past, if we could only manage such a meager appearance in honor of our fallen?

For 2019, the seventy-fifth anniversary, he envisioned a full squadron of DC–3/C–47 aircraft making their way to Normandy, where C–47s had dropped thousands of paratroopers during the liberation of Europe. With the contribution of hundreds of others in the individual aircraft teams, the D-Day Squadron achieved its goal: Fifteen American airplanes made it across the pond and back safely and without incident.

For 2024, the eightieth anniversary of D-Day and (just as importantly) the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Berlin Airlift, it seemed critical to us all to make an effort to show up for the few remaining veterans.

Photography courtesy of the D-Day Squadron. Click images below to expand.

So, in early May, airplanes started to arrive at our launch base in Oxford, Connecticut. Down from 15, we still managed to attract a half-dozen committed teams: the Tunison Foundation’s C–47 Placid Lassie; the Commemorative Air Force Central Texas Wing’s C–47 That’s All, Brother; the CAF Dallas-Fort Worth Wing’s Douglas R4D Ready 4 Duty; Vintage Flying Machines’ DC–3A Western Airlines; Hugo Mathys’s C–47 Screaming Eagle; and C–53 Spirit of Douglas, in the care of Aerometal International for a private owner. All but Screaming Eagle came to Connecticut for a kickoff event that was part public static display, part formation flight training—a very different endeavor than it is in smaller, more maneuverable aircraft—and part Atlantic crossing preparation. Over the days prior to our launch, our band of volunteers spent many hours reviewing oceanic crossing procedures, emergency ditching methods, and weather, with significant support from ForeFlight, Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University’s weather forecasting team, and a logistics team led by Louisiana Air National Guard Maj. Mike Scott, a former naval aviator.

In spite of poor weather, hundreds of people, in addition to the aircraft crews that typically included almost 50 people at any given time, gathered to see the airplanes off, punctuated by a majestic formation flight over the U.S. Military Academy at West Point and down New York City’s famous Hudson River VFR corridor. For the Placid Lassie “crossing crew”—pilots Ben Smith, Iain Wayman, Justin Zgoda, Eric Zipkin, and me, with crew chief Dixon Kenner—it was a last opportunity to say goodbye to friends and family, many of whom would rejoin us in Europe a week or so later. So, on May 18, four airplanes set off from Oxford for Presque Isle, Maine, our first stop. Ready 4 Duty had begun to experience serious mechanical problems that would eventually ground the airplane stateside. In flight, we all began to contemplate the gargantuan task ahead of us in a new way. We would be flying at relatively low altitude over very cold and unfrequented waters, in airplanes with limited heat and no autopilot, most with no deicing equipment or weather radar. Yet we knew it was an impossible comparison with the suffering and sacrifice of those who served more than 80 years prior. Today, we have GPS, satellite communications, decades of flying experience in each cockpit, and—perhaps most importantly—we don’t have to fly. No lives depend on our mission, important though it may seem.

The next day, we made our way to Canadian Forces Base Goose Bay, the same base used by aircraft crossing the Atlantic since World War II. (The United States and Canada jointly established an airfield in 1941 to serve as a fuel stop for aircraft bound for Europe). Low ceilings greeted us, and as the crews reunited in the lobby of Hotel North, we began to discuss the weather for the next day. Significant icing was forecast through much of the area between Goose Bay and Narsarsuaq, in southwestern Greenland, the next stop for most of the aircraft. Placid Lassie, equipped with almost 500 gallons of auxiliary fuel tanks, was the lone exception; our crew would proceed directly to Reykjavík, Iceland, almost 10 hours over water with few alternates.

Although all the aging aircraft had been running smoothly, this icing forecast was worrying; it told of a high risk of serious ice exactly at our cruising altitude, beginning around mid-morning the next day. Thankfully, our four crews were armed with significant Atlantic crossing experience: Paul Bazeley of Spirit of Douglas earns a living restoring and flying DC–3s for customers around the world, and it was the fifth Atlantic crossing for my dad in Placid Lassie. They counseled that we could stay stranded in Goose Bay for several days unless we took advantage of the gap in icing conditions forecast for the early morning, and quickly developed a plan to launch Spirit of Douglas first—equipped with onboard weather radar and deicing boots—to investigate the conditions, followed by Placid Lassie and the rest.

In the lobby, our informal briefing room that had suddenly filled with no small dose of stress, another curious aspect of our four crews appeared: uncommonly for the world of warbirds, we were nearly age-accurate, for the teenagers and twenty-somethings who served our country might not have looked so different. Aboard Placid Lassie, we counted Iain Wayman, 26; Justin Zgoda, 27; and me, 19. Western Airlines’ lead pilot was Job Savage, 22, and That’s All, Brother was flown under the command of "old man" Curt Lewis, 33. Each of us looked deeply within as we contemplated this incredible crossing, which paralleled the journey but could never equal the sacrifice of our forebears. Several of the organizations that keep these aircraft flying have made great efforts to recruit and train young pilots. As the key warbird demographic ages, this industry will simply run out of qualified pilots unless we take action. Tim Savage’s Vintage Flying Machines, for example, conducted DC–3 training for young warbird pilots after returning stateside. Thanks to the investment and generosity of these organizations, many of us, the next generation of warbird folks, had the chance to fly together and become good friends.

With our plan of departure set, the Placid Lassie crew gathered around the aircraft at 6 a.m. the next day. On this flight, we planned to trade out one crewmember from the cockpit every hour, not simply due to fatigue—with virtually no cabin heat behind the cockpit bulkhead door, only three or four people could be reasonably warm at once. Setting full takeoff power—48 inches—we rumbled into a low Labrador overcast on the morning of May 20 and climbed into the soup. The auxiliary fuel tanks, bolted to the floor in the cabin, were critical for reaching our destination, and although every effort had been made to ensure perfect operation, including multiple test flights, our dependence on their flawlessness still rattled us. As the hours rolled by aboard Lassie, we corresponded with our fellow aircraft via satellite and imagined the incredible sight of Narsarsuaq, or “Bluie West One” as it was known to U.S. forces during the war. Made famous by Ernest Gann’s Fate is the Hunter (mandatory pre-departure reading for any self-respecting ocean-crossing pilot), “Nars,” population 123 and avgas price $15 per gallon, is a remote outpost situated along a narrow fjord. Today, that makes for extraordinary scenery thanks to a reliable GPS approach, but the airport was long infamous for its particularly tricky NDB approach a narrow passage that snakes through hazardous terrain. Following an unplanned overnight stay in Narsarsuaq in 2014, the Placid Lassie crew chose to fit ferry tanks for future crossings, but the other crews delighted in experiencing such a special place before the legendary airport’s planned closure in 2026. The lone exception, I am certain, was Screaming Eagle, which was stranded in Narsarsuaq with a troublesome oil cooler for several days and forced to make the crossing alone; it is truly the ragged edge of civilization and a tough spot to break down.

With cabin temperatures approaching 0 degrees Fahrenheit aboard Placid Lassie, we could only stay somewhat warm by donning a full-length parka and climbing into a zero-degree sleeping bag. Below, the icy North Atlantic kept us focused; in oceanic crossing training, they tell you to steer toward the ships in the event of a ditching for the best chance of rescue. We spotted just one. Thankfully, the weather and ferry tanks cooperated, and we proceeded without incident to Reykjavík, landing in the colorful Icelandic city that evening. Though exhausted and cold, we were grateful for the safe trip.

Placid Lassie’s crew spent the following day exploring the city and resting; we were joined by most of the other aircraft a few hours later, as they had made quick fuel stops in Narsarsuaq. After the marathon Goose Bay-to-Reykjavík run, the five-hour overwater flight to Scotland the next day seemed trivial by comparison. We landed for our next fuel stop in typically Scottish fog and rain, then proceeded to North Weald, near London, the day after.

The month that followed brought with it enough adventures to fill a hardcover: The D-Day Squadron dropped paratroopers over England and France; participated in the flyover as part of the official ceremonies on June 6; appeared at an airshow near Paris; and joined forces with the U.S. Army in Wiesbaden, Germany. Perhaps most notably, several of the aircraft were able to fly in formation with the U.S. Air Force Lockheed C–130s visiting Normandy for the anniversary, expertly coordinated by Air Force Capt. Christian “Trauma” Maude. With the Atlantic crossing complete, we warbird pilots got back to doing what we know best: displaying and sharing the aircraft we are privileged and honored to fly with the public.

Attendees were exceptionally appreciative of everything that these spectacular airplanes represent, swarming the aircraft at every event and inquiring about the smallest details of their stories. For each of us with the D-Day Squadron, it was an honor and an adventure. Being aviation addicts to the core, we’re already making plans for the next milestone anniversary in 2029.