766 Steps Above Berlin - David Morrow

How I Found David C. Morrow Sr.'s Story

Not every story in this project begins with an interview. Some arrive quietly in the mail, years after they were written.

While going through material that Berlin Airlift researcher Eddie Ide had shared with me, I came across a copy of a short letter David C. Morrow had sent him in 2017. It wasn't intended as a historical account. David was simply letting Eddie know that, at nearly ninety years old, he would no longer be able to attend Berlin Airlift Veterans Association reunions. Yet he wanted to continue supporting the organization.

Almost as an afterthought, he included a few memories from his time in Berlin.

The first few lines immediately caught my attention.

Until then, I had collected stories from pilots, mechanics, children, and others whose lives were shaped by the Airlift. David introduced me to someone I had not yet met through this project: a serviceman who spent the entire Airlift operating a radio relay station at the top of Berlin's Funkturm.

His letter is brief, but it offers a rare glimpse into one of the many unseen jobs that helped keep the Airlift running every hour of every day. Sometimes a single page is enough to preserve a piece of history that might otherwise have been forgotten.

766 Steps Above Berlin
David C. Morrow Sr.
Radio Relay Operator

Based on David's 2017 letter to Berlin Airlift researcher Eddie Ide

When people remember the Berlin Airlift, they often picture the endless stream of C-47s and C-54s crossing the skies over Germany. Few think about the men who ensured that pilots remained in radio contact throughout their missions.

For David C. Morrow, the Berlin Airlift began with something he never forgot:

In May 1948, he boarded an airplane for the very first time. The military had already suspended train service between Frankfurt and Berlin, so David and fellow serviceman Samuel Mauney were sent to Frankfurt to board one of the first C-47 "Gooney Bird" flights into the isolated city.

For the duration of the Airlift, David served at the very top of Berlin's Funkturm, operating a radio relay station around the clock. His crew worked eight-hour shifts: 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., 4 p.m. to midnight, and midnight to 8 a.m.

The job came with an unexpected daily challenge: If they reported for the morning shift, an elevator operator was on duty. But for the evening and overnight shifts, there was only one way to reach the top.

766 outdoor steps to the top.

In the winter, those steps became even more dangerous. The men climbed them wearing heavy parkas against the freezing temperatures. Sometimes ice covered the exposed staircase, forcing them to climb carefully in the dark.

At the top, they kept warm with the heat from the radios and a couple of small heaters. Whenever the electricity failed, a generator kept the station operating.

Looking back decades later, David also mentioned another memory that would shape the rest of his life.

During the Airlift, he met a young woman in Berlin. Afterward, through what he simply described as "a miracle," they found each other again. They eventually married and shared 50 years and 10 months together before she passed away in 2005.

Writing to fellow veteran Eddie Ide shortly before his 90th birthday, David explained that dialysis treatments would prevent him from attending future reunions. Yet he closed his letter with gratitude and continued support for the Berlin Airlift Veterans Association.

History often celebrates the aircraft that kept Berlin alive. David Morrow's story turns our attention to another essential piece of that extraordinary operation: the men who climbed 766 steps to the top of the Funkturm, shift after shift, to keep the communication lifeline running.