‘The airport is closed. The Condors are attacking the airport.’

A sliver of pinkish light cracked the darkness in the east as Dec. 7 dawned.

Men in flight suits knotted white scarfs around their heads. Lines of military aircraft waited in the dark for the takeoff signal, fuselages shiny with rain.

“Will the weather be good enough to bomb?” a voice asked.

“Do they know we’re coming?” asked another.

“Sure they know. Hey, did you see ‘Tora Tora Tora’ on TV last night?”

“Yeah. We lost again.”

It was Monday, Dec. 7, 1987--a day that will probably not live in infamy, given the competition.

As the sun rose over Van Nuys Airport, 10 World War II T-6 fighter/trainers snarled down the runway and formed up in a wingtip-to-wingtip formation that droned majestically into the rising sun.

The 18th annual Condor Squadron Remember Pearl Harbor Memorial Assault and Bourbon Breakfast was under way.

The Condors are a flying and drinking and singing and drinking and flying and drinking club founded in 1962 by ex-World War II pilots. They operate from a hangout at Van Nuys Airport, where they keep their own restored warplanes.

The club members, mostly former military pilots in their 50s and 60s, have created a life style all their own, a mixture of fighter squadron and retirees’ fraternity house.

They put on air shows. They seek downed aircraft as a Civil Air Patrol squadron. Sometimes they stage mock dogfights.

But Dec. 7 is the highlight of their year, the anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, the event that changed the lives of the club’s founding generation.

Hanging over the clubhouse bar is the framed countdown: “----Days till we get our Revenge.” The number is changed daily.

The number again stood at zero on Monday as the Condors climbed into their cockpits.

Each December the Condors exact vengeance on Japan by attacking some part of the Southern California desert, which is easier to find and does not fight back. This year as in many others the target was Mojave Airport, 90 miles away in Kern County.

The airport does not have any connection to Japan. The Condors attack it because its administration takes a tolerant view of them.

The Condor formation, seven of the 10 planes flown by World War II veterans, loomed over the Tehachapis just before 7:55 a.m., the time the Japanese barreled into Hawaii.

The planes peeled off to dive at a plywood target about seven feet square standing beside a runway. It displayed a large red circle and the date 1941.

The military would call the Condors’ bombs “flour, white, bags of, 5 lb.”

One after another, Condors flashed alongside the runway 15 to 30 feet off the ground at about 120 m.p.h. In the rear seat of the two-seat trainer planes a “bombardier” slid away the canopy and tried to drop a flour bag at just the moment to send it into the target.

The first 10 passes produced no hits. Each team had five bags. On the second round, one of the fluffy-looking bags punched neatly through the wood, like a rock through paper.

In time, 10 bags splintered the target. Sometimes the club has technicians set off ground explosions to simulate bomb blasts, but the squadron treasury wasn’t up to it this year.

“I guess this is what they mean by that saying that the difference between men and boys is the price of their toys,” said Brent Potter, 56, of North Hollywood, who watched from the ground.

A request from an incoming plane for permission to land came over a radio held by a club member.

“Negative,” replied the female air traffic controller’s voice. “The airport is closed.”

“Why?”

“The Condors are attacking the airport.”

“Say again.”

“The airport is closed because the Condors are attacking it.”

He was not heard from again.

Back in Van Nuys, the Condors breakfasted on scrambled eggs, baked ham, blueberry pancakes, sausages, bacon, English muffins, bourbon and vodka. They ate under photographs of German and American fighter aces. The pictures include the baleful gaze of Baron Manfred von Richtofen, the Red Baron. There are also photos of the club’s members, framed in black, usually cuddling their airplanes. Framed in gold are photos of 13 members who have died, seven in flying accidents.

The silver cup for top score went to Ray Schutte, 63, of Van Nuys, a World War II C-47 pilot. “This is just the ultimate pilot enjoyment,” said Schutte, who walks with a limp because he broke his right leg a few weeks ago, trying to learn to fly an ultralight airplane, which has more in common with a hang glider than a fighter.

The most accurate drop came from Jim Modes, 69, of Burbank, a World War II Air Corps instructor, whose son, Bill, 28, acting as bombardier, put a flour bag just under the “1941” in the target center.

“We’re just nuts,” was the elder Modes’ explanation of why he does this each year.

Cliff Branch, 51, of Lancaster, differed. “The president of the United States said this was a day that would live in infamy. We’re helping keep his promise.”