The Bittersweet Flights of Onkel Wackelflügel

Gail ‘Hal’ Halvorsen, born in Salt Lake City in 1920, grew up on small farms in rural Utah and Idaho. He worked hard, went to church, and dreamed of learning to fly. In 1941, he earned his private pilot’s license and joined the Civil Air Patrol. In December of that year, Pearl Harbor was attacked by Japan and the U.S. declared war. In 1942, he joined the U.S. Army Air Forces, received military flight training, and was sent to fly supply missions in the South Atlantic. In 1948, after the war, he was stationed in Germany, flying C-54 cargo planes into West Berlin as part of the U.S. effort to keep the city alive during the early years of the Soviet blockade.

While in Berlin, Halvorsen indulged his interests in photography and sightseeing. He took a small movie camera to film planes landing and taking off in Tempelhof, which was the main site of the airlift operations. While filming, he saw a group of children watching the planes and he walked over to talk to them.

He later remembered, “I met about thirty children at the barbed wire fence that protected Tempelhof’s huge area. They were excited and told me that ‘when the weather gets so bad that you can’t land, don’t worry about us. We can get by on a little food, but if we lose our freedom, we may never get it back.'”

Halvorsen recalled being deeply moved by the children, “These kids were giving me a lecture, telling me, ‘Don’t give up on us.’ … I just flipped. Got so interested, I forgot what time it was.”

He handed them two sticks of gum—all he had—and watched as they tore the wrappers into tiny strips so everyone could have a sniff, at the very least. He regretted not having enough gum for all the children and told them he would be back the next day with more. He promised to drop candy from his plane. One child asked, “How will we know it is your plane?” He told them he would let them know by wiggling his wings.

Halversen, his copilot, and his engineer pooled their candy rations for the drop. He made three parachutes from handkerchiefs and dropped the candy along with the regular supplies as he flew over Berlin. He continued to do this on his weekly drops, and the group of children waiting for the candy deliveries steadily grew. The kids began calling him “Onkel Wackelflügel,” Uncle Wiggly Wings.

Word reached Halvorsen’s airlift commander, who ordered an expansion of the project and other pilots joined in. The U.S. Air Force embraced the effort and called it “Operation Little Vittles.” Support came from Halverson’s entire squadron. When word reached the United States, civilians and candymakers began contributing candy and handkerchiefs. By the end of the eight-month operation, they had dropped 23 tons of candy. (Imagine 1,352,941 Fun Size Snickers bars, give or take.)

Halvorsen later said, “All the gifts and other worldly things that resulted did not bring near the happiness and fulfillment that I received from serving others—even serving the former enemy, the Germans, who had become friends.” He believed small gestures mattered. “Service before self, attitude, gratitude, and that little things add up to big things,” he would say.

Growing up in Utah during the Cold War, I loved the story of the Candy Bomber, which I learned about in grade school. It was our favorite story to tell ourselves. Here was a man from our tribe—a Mormon farm boy from Utah—who had done something unambiguously good in the world. Something clever and kind without permission or ulterior motives. We believed in the story because we believed it said something exceptional about us: our faith and our country. That we were a people who didn’t just drop bombs. We also, sometimes, dropped candy.

Forty years later, we are living in different times. This might be simply the difference between the scope of experience of an eight-year-old versus a forty-eight-year-old, but I feel we, as Americans, have become cynical. I have become cynical. When I was in my early twenties, the same age Halvorsen was when he was flying planes in WWII, 9/11 happened. The wars that followed were longer, bloodier, and morally murkier than anyone expected. Weapons of mass destruction never materialized. Regime change turned into chaos. And by the time I was in my thirties, the idea that the American military was a benevolent force in the world felt like a lie. We tortured prisoners and blew up weddings. I remember when, in 2016, Secretary of State John Kerry was pleading with the American people, trying to make a case for intervention in Syria. I listened and thought, bitterly, “You have convinced me that there is a great need for something to be done. Now convince me our military won’t make it worse by getting involved.”

But I never stopped believing in the positive influence of soft power. Diplomacy and humanitarian programs foster stability by promoting health and wealth in the developing world. Those efforts make everyone safer by preventing conflict before it begins. Feeding and educating children without asking for anything in return builds goodwill toward our country and the ideas it was built around. Whereas support of and attacks on Iran and others will most likely inspire another generation of hatred toward the U.S. in the Middle East.

Our current administration has dismantled USAID, the government agency responsible for administering humanitarian aid and development. We are burning surplus food instead of shipping it abroad, including food grown on Utah farms. We are cutting funds to programs that help refugees, deliver medicine and vaccines to children, and stabilize fragile democracies. And we are doing it with broad political support from the same people who once cheered for Gail Halvorsen. More than 70% of the Church’s membership in the U.S. votes for leaders and policies that actively undermine global compassion. When I travel through rural Utah now, I see billboards that question the value of democracy and lambast people like former Senator Romney for standing up for those ideals.

As cynical as I have become over the decades, it is baffling to me. And heartbreaking. Every time I think I have adequately lowered my expectations about my people, I find I am still able to be disappointed.

To be fair, the LDS Church has continued to fund large-scale humanitarian projects around the globe. They work with the UN, with the World Food Programme, and with hospitals and orphanages and schools in poor countries. Their website features smiling children and promising mission statements about healthcare and clean water. They drop a lot of candy, metaphorically speaking. I suspect the members don’t see the cognitive dissonance between the way they think of themselves on church Sundays and how they vote on election Tuesdays. Perhaps they would point out the dissonance between my cynicism of our military actions and my naïve support of USAID and the impact of soft power. Maybe they believe their 10% tithing given to the LDS church replaces the tax dollars spent on USAID. Maybe they feel it’s more righteous if humanitarian aid comes from the Church instead of the state. But here’s the problem: nonprofits and churches can never replace the reach and resources of a government like the United States. The impact and relative savings reaped by investment in soft-power initiatives are not quantifiable. USAID has saved millions of lives. And when the U.S. government throws its weight behind compassion, the world notices. I think Gail Halvorsen understood this.

At first, Halvorsen’s candy drops were not a sanctioned operation. He could have been reprimanded. But then, the military endorsed it. His soft rebellion became official policy, and it mattered. Years later, Halvorsen would reflect on that first moment at the fence and say, “The reason I went back to the fence … was a prompting just clear as a bell. I know it was the Holy Ghost and no other source.” It wasn’t strategy or sentiment; it was conviction. A spiritual imperative to act with kindness.

Children in Berlin collected the parachutes. Some made them into underwear, as fabric was scarce. The candy gave joy, yes, but it also gave dignity. A feeling of being seen. It wasn’t just about the chocolate. It was about the message: you are not forgotten.

Gail Halvorsen died in 2022, at the age of 101. For all I know, he voted for Trump. Maybe he voted for him twice. I don’t care. What matters is that he did something truly good in the world. Something worth remembering.

I believe my country and my former church are still capable of doing good. I believe, on our best days, we can still tell the difference between civilians and combatants. I want to choose naïveté over cynicism, if those are my options. I want to believe that kindness still has a place in our politics. Maybe that starts with something small: supporting humanitarian aid when it’s on the ballot. Writing to representatives when compassion is on the chopping block. Teaching our children that generosity is strength, not softness. Listening to the promptings that lead us to show up, even when the world says it isn’t our problem. The beacon guiding us out of the storm might not be a spotlight. It might just be the steady blink of a wingtip light wiggling hello overhead—a quiet signal from someone choosing kindness at altitude.

Happy Pioneer Day.