The Long Way Home (Revised Ed)
Page 7
“Captain Ford?” the Consulate officer called, as he approached him.
Ford turned away from the news board and saw the clerk carrying several message forms in his hand. “Yes, I’m Ford. Do you have something for me?”
“Yes – finally, sir – sorry for all the delay, but you know,” the clerk was apologetic, “it’s been a real mess. But I think we have what you have been waiting for. Would you mind signing this receipt book?” The clerk shoved forward the open ledger and a pen.
Ford signed the book and handed it back. The clerk, in turn, handed him one of the message forms. “Thank you, sir,” he said, then returned to the code room.
Ford walked slowly over to a chair against the wall, sat down, unfolded the message and began to read it.
SECURITY: TOP SECRET
TO : CAPTAIN ROBERT FORD
FROM : CHIEF, FLIGHT OPERATIONS
PAN AMERICAN AIRWAYS SYSTEM
CHRYSLER BUILDING
NEW YORK CITY, NY
SUBJECT : DIVERSION PLANS FOR NC18602
NORMAL RETURN ROUTE CANCELED STOP PROCEED AS FOLLOWS COLON STRIP ALL COMPANY MARKINGS COMMA REGISTRATION NUMBERS COMMA AND IDENTIFIABLE INSIGNIA FROM EXTERIOR SURFACES STOP PROCEED WESTBOUND SOONEST YOUR DISCRETION TO AVOID HOSTILITIES AND DELIVER NC18602 TO MARINE TERMINAL LAGUARDIA FIELD NEW YORK STOP GOOD LUCK STOP
Good luck, hell! Ford thought, we’re going to need miracles, not luck. He folded the message and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he hurried to the Pan American operations office to confer with Bill Mullahey.
Mullahey frowned as he contemplated the message form that Ford had handed him. “They don’t expect much, do they?” he muttered sarcastically. “Just head out like it was a Sunday drive or something! Christ, Bob, this is survey flight time all over again. Talk about carts before horses, this is the prize example!”
Ford tried to sound a reasonable note, “They’re right about one thing: we can’t go back the way we came. And we can’t just sit here and wait for the Japs to take over. Looks like we don’t have much choice.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Mullahey paused. “...Well, I guess it’s back to school time – and we’d better get that geography lesson going! What do you have on board in the way of charts?”
“Just the usual Mercators for the normal route. They overlap a little in a westerly direction, but not enough to even get us to Australia, let alone clear to New York. We’re going to have to come up with some other sources.”
Mullahey thought for a moment. “I think I know where I can get some geography text books and atlases and possibly some marine charts – from the Auckland library. Meanwhile I think we’d better get some of the crew down here to help my boys strip those marking off the ship.”
Ford nodded assent to these suggestions. Then they both got into Mullahey’s car and drove to the Grand Hotel. It was noon as they arrived, and they found all the crew in the dining room having lunch.
“Eat fast, boys. We’ve got our orders and there’s a job to do,” Ford declared as he approached their table.
“Well, it’s about time!” John Steers exclaimed. “What’s the word?”
“First order of business is we’ve got to strip off all Company insignia and registration markings from the ship. Bill here needs you to help his ground crew to do that. Meanwhile we need to figure out a way home. The New York office wants us to head west and get back to New York the long way ‘round.”
“Christ, Skipper,” Rod Brown reacted, “that’s a helluva route. Where the hell are we supposed to get gas and service? And we don’t even have nav charts beyond Auckland.”
“Yeah, I know,” Ford agreed, “but it looks as though that’s about the only way we can go without running into the Japs. Bill thinks we can find some maps to figure some kind of route. Johnny, you and Rod come with us and we can all work on this flight problem. Meanwhile, the rest of you get down to the ship and help with the paint stripping. Swede,” and here he turned to Swede Rothe, “you and Parrish get moving on refueling. And top those tanks with as much as our takeoff weight will allow. No telling how or where we’ll be able to get aviation fuel... We’ll have to see how this flight route works out.”
After a hurried gulping down of food and drink, they were all driven to the harbor in the crew limousine that Bill Mullahey had ordered. Once there, they met with Verne White, Pan Am’s chief mechanic at Auckland, and together with his maintenance crew, began stripping the paint markings from the flying boat.
Meanwhile Mullahey drove Bob Ford, Johnny Mack, and Rod Brown to the Auckland Public Library where they explained their needs to the librarian. Shortly they were huddled around a table with a mass of old marine charts, atlases, and schoolboy geography books, looking for the best way home.
“Look here,” Brown pointed to a double-page illustration of a world map in a school geography book. “The hop to Australia should be no problem. We can head for Sydney or Brisbane and then from there to someplace on the west coast. But then we’ve got the problem of getting across the Indian Ocean. A direct route to Africa looks as though it would be too long for our best long-range cruise endurance.”
“Well,” Johnny Mack suggested, “what about cutting across northwest up toward Indo-China? Maybe hit Darwin and then keep in close to the coast via Java and India?”
“That would put us closer to any possible Jap military action.” Brown replied.
“Yeah, but there sure as hell ain’t no refueling stations in the middle of the Indian Ocean!”
“I think Johnny’s got a point.” Ford broke in. “It’s going to be a trade-off either way. Either we load to the gills and hope the headwinds don’t slow us down too much for a direct run to Africa, or we take a chance that we can get gas at some of those ports up toward Java and India without running into any shooting. Considering that we have zero weather info from here on out, I’d say our best bet is toward the northwest. Once we get across India and Arabia to Africa we should be pretty much home free. We’d be back in Company territory if we can reach Leopoldville[5].”
The four of them were silent then; each studying the charts laid our before them and trying to visualize the best possible route home. Very soon they had a consensus.
“We’re agreed then.” Ford summarized their decision. “From here to Brisbane, then up to Darwin. Darwin to Surabaya, Surabaya to Trincomalee
[6], then to Karachi, Bahrain, Khartoum, and Leopoldville. Once we reach Leopoldville we’re back at Company facilities and it should be no big problem outfitting for the run to Natal, then north via Port of Spain to LaGuardia. Any questions?”
“How about gas and oil and food provisions?” Brown asked.
“We’re just going to have to take our chances. Maybe Bill can try to get word ahead through the consulate channels to those locations and they can arrange for supplies through local military sources. I’m sure by now the Brits have increased mobilization across that whole southern region. Should include plenty of aviation action and they ought to have the 100 octane we’ll need. As for food,” Ford paused, ”we just may have to do a little shopping... Can we get some cash advance to cover that, Bill?” he turned and asked Bill Mullahey.
“I’ll give you what I can from our cash fund here, but it’s not much. We may have to have the Company wire funds ahead for you. I’ll see what I can do.”
Ford nodded and then turned his attention once again to the maps spread out before him. “Rod, take these charts and see what sort of navigation sense you can make out of them. We’ll need some approximate course lines and DR headings. Without any weather or winds aloft data we’re really going to be flying blind as far as ground progress is concerned. Let’s just assume it’ll be headwinds all the way. That way we can keep our reserve requirements on the conservative side.”
“Sure, Skipper,” Brown responded, as he studied the charts and measured distances and headings in his mind’s eye. “I think I can run true course line interpolations on the back side of our
regular charts and expand each leg depiction that way. Our copy of Bowdich’s Navigation ought to give us good approximations on the magnetic variations as we go along.”
“Okay, if we’re all agreed, let’s get on with it,” Ford concluded. “Now let’s head back to the dock and see how that paint stripping job is coming.”
Shortly after they returned to the harbor, a courier in a United States Consulate car drove up to the Pan American operations office. He walked quickly over to Bill Mullahey.
“Mr. Mullahey, I have another dispatch for Captain Ford. Is he available to sign for it?”
Mullahey nodded at the courier. “Yeah, he’s down at the dock. Come on, I’ll take you down there.”
The two men left the operations office and walked down the path to the dock where NC18602 was being stripped of its markings. Ford and Chief Mechanic Verne White were standing on the dock supervising the operation.
“Bob,” Mullahey called as they approached, “here’s another dispatch for you from the Consulate.”
Ford turned as the two men came down the ramp. The courier had him sign the receipt book again and handed him the new message. He studied it briefly before commenting. “Well, that’ll change our plans a bit,” he thought aloud.
“How’s that, Bob?” Mullahey asked.
“It looks like we’ve got to do some backtracking. Now the Company wants us to return to Noumea as soon as possible and evacuate all Pan American personnel and their families to Gladstone, Australia. They say they’ve arranged for ground transport for them from there to Sydney where they’ll be shipped back to the States via surface transport. Also,” and here he turned to Verne White, “Verne, looks like you’ll be coming with us!”
“The hell, you say!” White exclaimed. “How come?”
“Seems like they have a special assignment for you at Karachi. And a couple of the Noumea mechanics are being reassigned to some airbase in Bahrain. Looks like we’re all in this together from now on. After that we’ll be on our own getting back to New York.”
“That’ll revise your initial flight route, but it shouldn’t change the overall plan by much,” Mullahey reasoned.
“Yeah, I guess so, but there is one other thing... You have a couple of spare engines stored here, don’t you?”
“Right,” Verne White answered. “What about ‘em?”
“Company says we need to tear them down and stow them aboard for spare parts. Can we get that done and be ready in time to head out tomorrow?”
White thought a moment. “If we knock off the paint stripping job and get all hands to tearing down those engines, we might get the job done by late tomorrow. You’re the Captain... what priority do you want to assign on this?”
Ford turned and looked over the Boeing rocking quietly at the dock. The flight and ground crew members were busy scraping and removing the paint markings. Most of the job was done except for a large American flag on top of the wing. What the hell, Ford thought, that’s good enough. Those engine parts are going to be more important than some paint marks. “Let’s knock off the paint job and get on those engines,” he decided. Then he turned to Mullahey. “Oh, and while I think of it, Bill, speaking of personnel transfers, we’d better plan on having Eugene Leach stay with us. Just in case we need maintenance help with the radios. I’ll authorize his assignment as a crew member.”
They immediately called the flight and ground crew members off the paint stripping job and set them to work tearing down the two Wright Cyclone engines that had been part of the spare parts inventory of the Auckland base. It was no simple task. The 14 cylinders of each engine were configured in two radial rows of seven cylinders each, plus the accessory sections containing the oil and gas line connections, electrical connections, along with the propellers, hubs, and prop governor controls. Each cylinder was held down by 16 tightly-secured head bolts that had to be unscrewed with great care to avoid stripping the threads. Verne White, along with Swede Rothe and Jocko Parrish, supervised the operation as they instructed the maintenance crew and the flight crew members in the delicate art of dismantling these complex power plants.
They worked through the night and into the early hours of the next morning. By 3 A.M they had managed to fully dismantle only one of the engines. The parts had been carefully stowed in various passenger compartments, distributed so as to keep the weight and balance as close to normal as possible.
“Hell, that’s enough for now,” Ford exclaimed. “Let’s knock off and get a little shut-eye. We can get going on the other engine later in the morning.”
The crew was more than happy to agree with their Captain. It had been a long and grueling day. Bleary-eyed and grimy, they all piled into the crew limo and were taken to the hotel for a few hours of welcomed rest.”
“Sleep fast, guys!” Ford quipped. “The morning call will be 7 A.M.”
All too soon, after only four hours of rest, they once again went to work dismantling the second engine. They worked through the morning and afternoon and stowed the last of the dismantled power plant on board by 7 P.M. But any thought of the crew returning to the hotel again for a night’s sleep was quickly dispelled by Ford’s next order.
“Everyone grab a bunk or seat on board and get what shut-eye you can right here. We have to arrive at Noumea early enough in the morning to give those people time to pack and get on board. We can’t radio our intentions because of the aircraft communications blackout and we can’t risk visual detection by any Jap patrols that might be in the area. So we’re aiming for a night takeoff around 10 P.M. That should put us into Noumea around dawn and we’ll still have time to load and get out of there for the flight to Gladstone. Any questions?”
There were none. Twelve weary and oil-stained crew members climbed aboard the Boeing. Each sought out a bunk or double seat to crawl into. Lulled by the gentle rocking motion of the big ship, each of them soon fell into various stages of sleep or dozing, hoping to restore their energy for the ordeal that lay ahead of them. It would begin in a little less than three hours.
Bill Mullahey peered into the darkness ahead of the small boat. Except for the electric lantern he held in his hand, no lights were visible along the length of the seaplane channel. As he motored slowly along the length of the takeoff area he strained to detect the presence of any floating object that might present a risk for the takeoff. Water takeoffs and landings at night were marginally safe at best. Under these conditions the risk was magnified many times. With full fuel tanks and the added weight of the stripped down engines, NC18602 was at least 1,000 pounds over-grossed. Ford would need every bit of takeoff length to break free of the calm water of the bay. There would be no room for error. As Mullahey approached the far end of the channel, with his electric lantern providing the only visual reference, he slowed to a stop and took one more look around. Then, very carefully and deliberately, he held the lantern aloft and waved it in a horizontal arc toward the takeoff end of the channel where Ford waited with engines idling.
“There it is,” Johnny Mack called out. “Bill’s reached the end of the channel. That’s the ‘all clear for takeoff’ signal.”
Bob Ford had also spotted the light signal. He tightened his grip on the throttle controls. “Okay, Swede, full power follow through, now!”
Once again the overpowering roar of the four Wright Cyclone engines filled the cabin. NC18602 surged forward into the blackness, guided only by the dim point of light at the far end of the channel. Within 35 seconds, Ford had the big ship on the step and, with a gentle back pressure on the yoke, broke free of the water and settled into a shallow climb. As they reached 200 feet, they passed the motor launch where Bill Mullahey was still waving his lantern.
“Godspeed, you guys!” Mullahey uttered a quiet prayer as the Boeing roared past. “...and good luck. You’re going to need it!”
4th Officer John Steer’s Flight Log
1st Officer John Mack’s Flight Log
CHAPTER VII
RETURN TO NOUMEA
The sound began as a low hum. Very quickly it grew loud enough to mask the distant squawking of the birds. It penetrated Washer’s sleep-drugged mind and he woke again, suddenly, as the hum became a roar and he recognized it as the sound of a high-powered aircraft coming in very low and very fast. “Christ! What the hell is that?” he exclaimed, as he jumped from the bed and ran to the window.
His wife rolled over, propped herself on one elbow and brushed her hair away from her eyes. “Bud, what is it? Is something wrong?”
“I dunno,” he responded, still only half awake. “Might be a Jap air raid!” Something real big just passed over the house. Wait a minute...”
“Oh, God! What’ll we do?”
Bud crouched down low at the window sill and drew his wife down beside him. “Wait a minute, wait a minute...” He tried to calm her as he peered out at the grey dawn and attempted to make out the identity of the intruder that had passed overhead. Then, within a couple of seconds, he recognized the rapidly receding shape as it headed toward the harbor. “Hell, that’s the Boeing... The Clipper, probably coming back from Auckland. But what’s it doing coming in this time of day? We didn’t have any word on a return flight schedule. I’d better high-tail it down to operations. This could be important.”