C-47s Over Normandy

On the ground, occupied France awaited the Allied airborne pathfinders preparing to jump. The transport aircraft, down low and vulnerable, were tasked with flying in unescorted and returning to England to repeat the mission. This operation was critical, years in the making, and it could not fail.

Also known as a Dakota to the British, the C-47 was the militarized version of a DC-3 credited by Dwight D. Eisenhower as one of the four weapons that won the war. This airframe carried men and equipment, towed gliders, and became America’s go-to workhorse.

In June 2024, some of those same aircraft that crossed the beaches that fateful morning returned to France to commemorate the 80th anniversary of D-Day as part of the 2024 Legacy Tour. The tour was an ambitious undertaking by the D-Day Squadron, a group of DC-3s, C-47s, and C-53s (a rarer version of militarized DC-3) committed to preserving and honoring the aircraft’s history.

Four D-Day Squadron aircraft first gathered in Oxford, Connecticut, for the kickoff of the tour in late May. They followed the “Blue Spruce” Route, crossing to Europe via Canada, Greenland, Iceland, and Scotland as was done in the 1940s. 

Placid Lassie, the Tunison Foundation’s C-47, was equipped with two ferry tanks and thus could skip Greenland altogether, opting for a 10-hour leg over the North Atlantic. In the C-53 Spirit of Douglas, the crew was riding in style with the recently renovated cabin that evokes the luxury of early airliners.

The crew of Western Airlines had a starkly different transatlantic journey. In the back of its DC-3 with no heater, the eight-person crew bundled up in battery-powered clothing as the temperatures dipped into the negatives. 

Also completing the journey was the Commemorative Air Force C-47 That’s All, Brother, the actual airplane that led the squadron in 1944. 

I met with the aircraft in England, where I began to learn about the logistics and motivations behind the journey. The crewmembers wanted to share the history of D-Day (which stands simply for Day-Day), but many also carried personal reasons for the journey.

One pilot was wearing the watch of his wife’s grandfather, who was in the 29th Infantry Division that landed on Omaha Beach. Another crewmember brought a photo album with pictures of his parents—an English girl and an American serviceman—who met while his father was working at an English hospital. 

A crew chief on Placid Lassie, Bob Creater, wore his father’s dog tags from when he landed in the second wave at Utah Beach as part of the 82nd Seabee Battalion. This trip was the first time that Creater could see the beaches for himself.

As crewmembers shared what they brought, I realized the Legacy Tour was about more than returning the planes to their wartime theater. It was a way for the families of those who fought in D-Day to experience, in some way, what the veterans had. 

This was especially true for Allison Reams II. Al grew up hearing little from his father about the war, except that he had been a pilot. “Not a word,” he recalls. “But a friend said he’d never met a better pilot than my dad.” A recent discovery, however, led him to his father’s story and, ultimately, to Normandy.

The story of Major Allison LeRoy Reams would have been lost had it not been for a seventh-grade history project undertaken by Al’s niece. In researching her family, she found a notebook among her late grandfather’s things, detailing his role in D-Day.

Reams—then a captain—was the original pilot of That’s All, Brother. In anticipation of an invasion, the C-47 crews were moved to Greenham Common and confined there on June 3. There was no official communication about the purpose of the move, but the men had their suspicions. 

“Briefing starts tomorrow,” the June 3 diary entry reads. “This may be the invasion.”

The next day’s entry show Reams’ prediction was correct. They would be dropping paratroopers from the 101st Airborne Infantry Division into France near Sainte-Mere-Eglise.

“This is the invasion,” he wrote, underlining each word individually. 

On June 5, the originally scheduled date for the invasion, the crew stood by on a one-hour alert and, according to the diary, were given final speeches about combat flying. Reams was then told that his airplane had a special mission. 

“My ship ‘That’s All Brother’ will be lead ship in the group,” he wrote. 

Command Pilot Lieutenant Colonel John Donalson would fly Reams’ aircraft for the invasion, leading 820 other C-47s. It was likely chosen as the lead for its Rebecca airborne transceiver, which connected to the Eureka ground transponder carried by the pathfinders.

That evening, the pilots prepared to launch.

“Gen. Eisenhower on field,” the journal continues. “Boys all appear calm and ready. Stations—21:36. 1st ship off ground 22:21. H Hour 00:52, June 6.”

Al Reams and his family met the squadron in England for an unforgettable, unrepeatable experience—to fly across the English Channel and down the Normandy beaches in his father’s airplane.

“My dad’s plane,” Al says softly as we walk up to the aircraft. He doesn’t know if his father was the one to come up with the name That’s All, Brother—a message to the German dictator—but says, “We think so. It sounds like something he would have said.”

Most of the metal in That’s All, Brother is original, and Al traces his hands along the panels as we sit. Also on board are his nephew Troy and grandson Brandt. The three generations climb into the plane and up the steep incline of the three-point configuration. Coated in olive drab paint and not much else, the airplane looks mostly how it would have during the war. The family buckles into the metal seats, facing inward.

Soon we are coasting over the East Anglian countryside. We fly first over the White Cliffs of Dover, the welcome sight for pilots returning from missions. Then we pass the Battle of Britain memorial, the giant three-bladed propeller clearly seen from the air. 

Al is tracing our path on Google Maps. He smiles, taking in the lightly shaking fuselage and smell of old metal and paint. Holding up his wrist, he shows me the “loud environment warning” on his watch, the natural consequence of two Pratt & Whitney R-1830s.

The water stretches before us as we leave the English coastline behind. “Imagine all the guys sitting here in the dark,” he says over the thrum of the engines. I try to picture it in the space before me—young soldiers watching the last lights of home disappear before they face the greatest battle of their lives.

With the sea haze, there comes a point when we can no longer see England and cannot yet view France. In that moment, surrounded by nothing but clouds, it is somewhat easier to envision the scene. Though the circumstances are wholly different, one aspect doesn’t require imagination—the temperature. 

We are in a massive unheated cabin with air leaks at the windows and doors, so despite it being a summer day, most of us have donned gloves and layers. I move to the cockpit in search of a warmer spot and share some of the pilots’ candy. From the ziplock bag between them, I choose a Tootsie Roll, which has since frozen into something more resembling a Tootsie jawbreaker.

France comes into view, and the black-and-white invasion stripes—markings designed to distinguish Allied aircraft in what was sure to be a busy sky—shine against the backdrop of the crystal blue water. 

This legendary airplane was the first to cross into occupied France. Now, it returns.

Craters from bombs scar the landscape below. What I first mistook for golf course sand traps are remnants of the war. People begin to call out the sights as we pass. “Mulberry Harbors!” “Juno Beach!” “Pegasus Bridge!” The landmarks of Operation Overlord present themselves outside the rectangular windows. Soon, we are all pressed against the sides. Flying directly into the sun, every bolt on the wing casts an individual tiny shadow.

The feeling in the cabin changes, and the excited chatter morphs into a profound moment of silence. We trace the coastline, beholding the white sands that are now pristine but were once strewn with mines, ditches, and obstacles. We fly a tight circle over the Normandy American Cemetery, where 9,389 of our countrymen were laid to rest. 

“Think of how many guys we just flew over who didn’t get to go home,” one of the crewmembers remarks into the reverent quiet.

The enormity hits me most directly as we circle Pointe du Hoc, the site of the Army Rangers’ heroic ascent to secure the position from the Germans. I’m overcome with emotion, and I’m far from the only one. The group’s feelings seem adequately summarized by CAF pilot Daniel Wotring. “Well,” he says, eyes fixated out the window, “if that isn’t a downright spiritual experience.”

When we land at Cherbourg-Maupertus Airport (LFRC) and open the large paratrooper door, it’s a moment of pure peace. The cliffside is dotted with long grass swaying in the breeze, and the air is filled with the scent of the sea.

In my years around warbird aviation, I have often wondered how the crew of such incredible airplanes can seem nonplussed. I’ve seen pilots climb out of fighters and bombers with the same ease one exits a Cessna, like it was a casual, normal flight. 

There is no such casual attitude among the crew on this day, because this was not any normal flight. Everyone is taking pictures and sending them back home, and the excitement has left us buzzing.

“I just can’t quite believe it. I’ll walk home if I have to, after that,” I hear someone say from the cockpit.

Perhaps the most excited is Curt Lewis, having just flown in the left seat of the C-47 down the beach. As a child, he used to fly that same route in a C-47 on a flight simulator. He is beaming as he exits the cockpit. His childhood self would have hardly believed that he would complete the flight in real life.

We depart from Cherbourg and make a straight line for England, but Al’s eyes remain transfixed on the beaches until they fade from view. “We weren’t that close,” he says to me after a time, speaking of his father. “And that was my fault.” The rest of the journey home is quiet. 

The English coastline appears, bathed in the setting sun. It’s the scene of countless aviation paintings—a weary C-47 returning home. As we shut down in the grass at Duxford Aerodrome (EGSU) and begin to thaw from the flight, there is a final moment in silence and darkness.

The rhythmic ticking of cooling exhaust systems echoes through the belly of the C-47 as the faint smell of oil drifts into the cabin. I reflect on whether those young men knew the magnitude of what they were doing, and whether they imagined that we’d be remembering them like this, 80 years later.

Certainly, no one could have predicted that this exact airplane would return in 2024 bearing the family of the man who flew it. Looking at the three generations sitting across from me, I feel immense gratitude for what the Allied forces braved and accomplished. 

The C-47’s mission was to drop paratroopers, and no event would be complete without them. Jump teams traveled from around the world for the opportunity for a static line jump from a war veteran C-47 on the anniversary. 

One paratrooper, recreating the iconic look of the Filthy Thirteen, tapes the fuselage, ensuring that nothing sharp could snag a jumper’s line as he exits the aircraft.

The jump process in wartime was a technical one, and it was repeated to near perfection on the commemorative drops.

One or two “sticks” of paratroopers, each with around 20 jumpers, were assigned to an aircraft. They identified their transport for the day by matching the number written in chalk on the fuselage with that on the sign hanging around their leader’s neck. They were counted as they loaded up and sat between each other’s legs, facing the tail. 

Along with the jumpers, there would have been a pilot, copilot, and crew chief from the Army Air Corps, and a jumpmaster from the Airborne division. In our modern context, the Army Air Corps positions were filled by aircraft crew, and the jumpmaster was one of the certified paratroopers. 

On one occasion over France there was also me, wearing a harness and hooked in next to the cockpit. I pressed against the interior skin as tightly as possible, but the back of the C-47 quickly became a crowded place with 39 jumpers, two crewmembers, and myself. 

During takeoff, the crew chief and jump master stood at the back and, sticking their heads out the gaping hole left by the removed doors, watched for the moment the wheels left the ground. Once airborne, the call of “Army, your aircraft!” was met with raucous cheers from the seated paratroopers, a callback to the wartime transfer of command.

Maintaining my footing in the climb prior to reaching a level flight attitude was a challenge, and I was grateful for the bulky packs cushioning me into the now-folded paratrooper seats. The jumpers made their final adjustments as we neared the drop zone at roughly 1,500 feet.

When it came time to jump, everything operated like clockwork. On command, the stick stood as one, hooking in their static lines aft of where I was tethered. Their movements were practiced and steady, having been briefed extensively on the ground. Still facing the tail but now standing, they checked the gear of the jumper ahead of them, sounding off in the affirmative.

A moment of silence stretched into two, then three, as we waited for the jump light to illuminate. Green light. Go.

No hesitation, no wasted movement—just the green light and the rapid opening of small parachutes below, dotting the French countryside with white circles. 

The second stick repeated the same maneuvers, the jumpmaster last out. In wartime, he would salute the crew chief, handing control of the operation back to the aircrew. The crew chief then gathered the static lines, left fluttering in the wind after the parachutes pulled away. With the work of the drop finished, we were alone in the cavernous belly of the British C-47, Pegasus. Now that there was ample space, I was able to walk around, careful to bring my six-foot leash along with me.

I perched by the open side of the airplane and stared at the countryside in a moment of peaceful wonder until something appeared in the corner of my vision. It was Placid Lassie, coming into formation, with another troop transport off her wing, a far more modern  U.S. Air Force C-130. 

In Cherbourg, the four American Douglases and Pegasus were joined by Aero Legend’s C-47 Drag ’Em Oot and the A-26 Invader Million Airess. Behind them, Hercs were brought in from bases around the world, some of them painted in invasion stripes to match their predecessors. 

On my last day in France, I was able to fly in Placid Lassie as we joined That’s All, Brother and five C-130s in formation above the clouds. U.S. Air Force airmen sat in the open cargo doors in the back, watching as two models of transport aircraft, 80 years apart, met in these historic skies. 

It is superficially simple to draw comparisons between these two flights and the many that occurred on June 6, 1944. That is, after all, part of the point of the Legacy Tour—to recreate the operation.

Concurrently, there is the obvious knowledge that any comparison will fall short. No one, certainly not I, can grasp the feeling of sitting in these airplanes 80 years ago. All we can do is work to preserve the stories of that day and the significance of what transpired.

For many veterans, the memories of that day in Normandy remained unshared. The men who leapt into dark skies, stormed hostile beaches, and flew into enemy airspace rarely spoke of what they witnessed. This tour provided, in some small, personal circumstances, a way for sons to connect with the parts of their fathers’ lives that remained locked behind decades of silence. 

When I wasn’t staring out the window at the C-130s and C-47s in formation, I was able to see a different multigenerational bond inside Placid Lassie—that between father and son, Eric and Luc Zipkin. They work in tandem, sitting in the left and right seats, respectively.

The senior Zipkin is president and founder of the Tunison Foundation, of which the D-Day Squadron is part. He was largely responsible for bringing this operation together, and his son, now 19 years old, is an accomplished warbird pilot and clearly a conscientious steward of history.

There was another father-son duo on the tour, Tim and Job Savage of Western Airlines. For them, the tour was always about more than just flying. Tim knows that the future of these aircraft depends on the ability of the current generation to pass the torch to the next.

“That is our responsibility as the older warbird owners,” Tim Savage said. “Because without the younger guys, this thing’s going to die.”

Having spent two incredible weeks with these crews, I don’t see warbird aviation dying out any time soon. The passion that the people carried for these aircraft was unmistakable, their knowledge staggering, and their commitment to the preservation of history unflagging.

I am confident that these airplanes are in good hands and will continue to captivate audiences, drawing in a new generation of warbird enthusiasts and honoring the legacy of those who flew them.