On June 6, 1944, the Allied invasion of Normandy wasn’t just about tanks and strategy. It was also about beer. Specifically, the shocking lack of it.
Imagine this: you survive the largest amphibious assault in modern history, slog your way through enemy fire, and when you finally sit down to celebrate being alive—you’re handed a glass of watery French cider. That’s exactly what British soldiers got, and to be clear, they were not impressed.
So, naturally, the Royal Air Force stepped up with the most British solution imaginable: airborne pub service.
With transport planes tied up hauling actual wartime necessities (like, you know, weapons), the beer situation fell to the Spitfire squadrons. These iconic fighter planes were built for dogfights, not drink delivery—but the RAF made it work. They steam-cleaned 45-gallon drop tanks normally used for fuel, filled them with pale ale, and took off over the Channel with some of the most important cargo of the war.
These missions were dubbed "flying pubs," and the pilots didn’t just toss a couple of pints in the glovebox. Some aircraft were rigged to carry full-size kegs, others had long-range tanks repurposed to haul beer to the beaches. And if you’re wondering whether any of this was official—sort of. The Air Ministry literally released a press photo of a pilot lounging on his wing while beer was poured into a tank beneath him. It's basically the WWII version of an Instagram flex.
And the beer itself? Local breweries got in on it, too—like Henty & Constable in Sussex, who filled the tanks at RAF Tangmere. When the Spitfires hit cruising altitude, the beer chilled naturally in the cold upper atmosphere. Fridge who?
One Canadian pilot, Flight Lieutenant Lloyd Berryman, was tasked with flying beer into the still-unfinished Bény-Sur-Mer airstrip. He and his crew were met not with applause, but with a warning: German snipers were holed up in a nearby church tower. “Drop your tanks and bugger off,” a soldier told him. So they did just that—left the beer and took off before anyone caught a bullet trying to tap a keg.
By mid-summer, Typhoon aircraft were being fitted with two 90-gallon tanks of ale per trip, and landing on front-line strips just long enough to offload and bounce. The beer wasn’t always perfect—early runs tasted like jet fuel—but improvements were made. Eventually, soldiers were getting their pints cold, clean, and (mostly) petrol-free.
Even Dom Pérignon would’ve saluted this level of Champagne campaign.
By November, the beer drops became policy. The government mandated that five percent of all UK beer production should go to military personnel overseas. Meanwhile, back in Britain, civilians faced rationing. Farmers had to settle for tea during harvest. Panic drinking became a thing.
So this Memorial Day, raise a glass not just for the soldiers who fought—but for the absolute legends who risked flak fire to deliver what really mattered: morale in liquid form.
If that’s not worth a toast, we don’t know what is.
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