The Long Way Home (Revised Ed)

by Ed Dover

  Suddenly the air was filled with the rising wail of the alert sirens. Three Brewster fighters, already ‘cocked’ for action, darted out of their protective bunkers and lifted off the runway, up and eastward toward whatever it was that was bearing down on them.

  Bob Ford gripped the yoke with both hands and concentrated on holding a steady course. He glanced out the wind screen and watched as the Brewster loomed larger in his field of vision. Then he recognized the markings.

  “That’s a Dutch Air Force plane. I guess we’re getting an escort. The American Consul must have got through to the Dutch. We’ll follow the recognition pattern as planned.”

  Meanwhile, at the radio desk, Jack Poindexter had been tuning across the various aircraft bands attempting to pick up the fighters’ channel. They could not transmit to them because the crystal-controlled channels of the transmitters were not set for their frequencies; but they might be able to receive instructions and acknowledge with wing movements or turn maneuvers. All at once he picked up a strong signal in mid-transmission.

  “...WILL MAINTAIN ESCORT AT HIS SIX O’CLOCK POSITION. REQUEST FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS. OVER”

  “A FOR ALBERT, THIS IS COBRA. THREE FRIENDS EN ROUTE. FORM UP AFT OF BOGEY AND MAINTAIN ESCORT. CAN YOU SEE ANY IDENTIFYING MARKS?”

  “NOT YET. HOLD ON. WILL ATTEMPT ID. STAND BY.”

  Bob Ford watched as three more fighters closed in rapidly on the Boeing. They swept past on the port side and then he could not see them. They had taken up positions to the rear of NC18602. Now all four fighters were following the ship.

  “Skipper,” Poindexter called from the radio desk, “I’ve picked up their transmissions, but it’s a channel we can’t transmit on. What do we do?”

  “Nothing to do but continue straight and level. We sure as hell don’t want to startle them with any sudden change of course. Just keep monitoring and let me know if they broadcast any instructions for us.”

  “A FOR ALBERT, THIS IS B FOR BRAVO. THAT’S A MIGHTY FINE TARGET WE HAVE THERE. WHY TAKE A CHANCE. I THINK WE SHOULD BLAST IT NOW. SHALL I LET HIM HAVE IT?”

  “B FOR BRAVO, HOLD ON CHAP. WE NEED GROUND OKAY. THEY WANT AN ID BEFORE WE SHOOT. BESIDES, HE SEEMS TO BE RATHER DOCILE AT THE MOMENT. DON’T SEE ANY ARMAMENTS AND HE HASN’T MADE ANY EVASIVE MANEUVERS. HOLD YOUR BEAD ON HIM. I’M GOING IN OVER HIS TOPSIDE TO SEE IF THERE IS ANY ID ON HIM.”

  “Captain,” Poindexter called to Ford, “they’re closing in to get an identification on us. Sounds like they’re really itchy to shoot us down!”

  “Damn!” Ford muttered under his breath, “Why did we take our ID marks off at Auckland? We could sure use those markings now!”

  A for Albert slowly closed the distance between them and climbed to an altitude just a few feet above the Boeing’s triple tail. As he moved forward he spotted the remains of the American flag that had not been removed from the top of the wing.

  “COBRA, A FOR ALBERT HERE. THERE APPEARS TO BE PART OF AN AMERICAN FLAG PAINTED ON THE TOP SURFACE OF THE WING. NO OTHER IDENTIFYING MARKS VISIBLE. ADVISE PLEASE.”

  Colonel Koenrad stood behind the radio desk and pondered what he had just heard. Anyone could paint flags on aircraft. Any deception was possible. On the other hand, the bogey had not made any attempt to evade the intercept and was maintaining a straight and level course. Could he take a chance on it being friendly? His decision had to be made now.

  “A FOR ALBERT, THIS IS COBRA.” Koenrad took the microphone from the radio operator and spoke to the fighter himself. “MAINTAIN SURVEILLANCE IN FORMATION AT HIS SIX O’CLOCK POSITION. KEEP GUNS READY. LET HIM PROCEED AND WE’LL SEE WHAT HE DOES. IF HE SO MUCH AS WAGGLES A WING THE WRONG WAY, TAKE HIM OUT!”

  “COBRA, A FOR ALBERT, ROGER. BOYS, YOU ALL HEARD THAT. FORM UP AFT AND KEEP YOUR SAFETIES OFF. WE GO WHERE HE GOES.”

  In this way, like a great whale followed by pilot fish, the Boeing continued on its straight-in course toward the bay at Surabaya. As they approached one of the recognition checkpoints, Ford, gently and slowly, eased around in a procedure turn over the point, as they had been instructed to do by the Aussies.

  “COBRA, A FOR ALBERT. BOGEY APPEARS TO BE MAKING VALID IDENTIFICATION TURN OVER POINT X-RAY.”

  “A FOR ALBERT, COBRA. ROGER ON THAT. CONTINUE ESCORT.”

  Bob Ford glanced back along his port side as he completed the turn. He could just barely make out two of the fighter planes as they followed him in the turn. “Well,” he remarked, “they seem to have accepted that maneuver. Now let’s see if they’ll let us approach and land. Swede, set us up for a standard rate of descent, slow to approach speed and one-quarter flaps.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Swede responded. “And all fuel pumps on, fuel on mains, mixtures full rich, ready for approach and landing.”

  They were now approaching the sheltered strait separating Surabaya and the island of Madura. Ford concentrated his view ahead, trying to discover a safe landing area. The harbor at Surabaya was crowded with all kinds of ships. There did not appear to be a really safe seaplane landing area. The area just outside the harbor breakwater appeared to be the most suitable.

  “Johnny, set us up for an approach parallel to that breakwater, just outside the entrance to the harbor. We’ll put down as close to the entrance as possible and then taxi in.”

  “Okay, Skipper.”

  The Boeing eased around in a gentle turn onto the final approach. The Brewster fighters followed as if they were connected to the flying boat by a leash. Easing down to about fifty feet above the water, Ford made a long, slow final approach. The touchdown was feather-light. Just as Ford pulled the throttles to idle and hauled back on the yoke to slow their forward speed, the Brewsters roared past overhead.

  “COBRA, A FOR ALBERT. BOGEY HAS TOUCHED DOWN JUST OUTSIDE THE ENTRANCE TO THE INNER HARBOR. SHALL WE CONTINUE TO FOLLOW? OVER.”

  “A FOR ALBERT, ROGER. WE HAVE ALERTED THE HARBORMASTER. THEY ARE SENDING A PATROL BOAT TO INTERCEPT. YOU MAY RESUME YOUR SCHEDULED COASTAL PATROL. AND GOOD WORK CHAPS. WE’LL TAKE IT FROM HERE.”

  “ROGER, COBRA. OKAY BOYS, RESUME ORIGINAL PATROL PATTERNS. A FOR ALBERT OUT.”

  As the fighters broke off the intercept and made a wide circling climb to resume their patrol duties, Ford swung the Boeing around and started taxiing toward the breakwater entrance. As he moved slowly toward the inner harbor he saw the patrol boat coming toward them. A figure standing in the bow was waving at them, signaling for the ship to follow them into the harbor.

  “We seem to have a surface escort,” Johnny Mack remarked, pointing at the distant boat. “Shall we follow him in?”

  “Just proceed slowly,” Ford replied, “They might still be a little trigger-happy. We’ll keep our distance until we see where they’re leading us.”

  With the vision of the Dutch fighter planes still vivid in his mind, Bob Ford forced himself to concentrate on the priority of the moment: get this flying boat safely tied up at a buoy or dock and find out what the hell happened to that prior notification that the Aussies were supposed to send to the Dutch. With half a world further to go before reaching home, he did not want any more foul-ups that would threaten the safety of the plane or crew. It was tough enough doing this with no advance planning, let alone having to worry about challenges from friendly forces as well as enemy threats.

  With just enough throttle to maintain headway across the channel to the harbor entrance, Ford proceeded to follow the boat. Upon clearing the harbor entrance, the small boat headed directly toward a large buoy just off-shore from a small dock. The figure in the bow continued to wave the Clipper toward the buoy.

  “Looks as though they want us to tie up there,” Mack said, pointing at the buoy.

  “Okay, Steers, Brown, into the bow.” Ford called, “They’re putting us on a buoy.”

  John Steers and Rod Brown left their positions and crawled through the forward hatch into the bow compartment. With the bow hatch removed, they soon had the buoy lines secured to the snubbing posts and
Ford shut down all engines. NC18602 swung lazily into the wind as the patrol boat pulled alongside the port sea wing.

  “Everyone stay on board,” Ford ordered, “until we can sort out our status. That fighter escort acted as if they didn’t know about us. I’ll try to find out what happened to that notification that was supposed to have been sent.”

  He went below and stepped out on the port sea wing as the boat pulled alongside.

  “Ahoy! Captain,” the officer in the boat called out. “Please come aboard. You will have to report to our headquarters. We must escort you ashore.”

  “Okay,” Ford replied, “but I must leave my crew on board for now. It will take some time for them to secure our craft.”

  “That will be satisfactory, Captain. By the way, what kind of aircraft is this? And where did you come from? We had no information about you.”

  “This is a Pan American B314 Clipper. We were headed into Auckland when we learned about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. They gave us orders to divert westbound and try to get back to the United States the long way round to avoid getting caught by the Japanese.”

  “That is very interesting. But you will have to see our commanding officer before we can clarify your status. Strictly for security reasons, you understand.”

  Ford nodded his assent as he boarded the boat and they proceeded to the dock. Once on shore, they walked across the road to the administration building. Colonel Koenrad was coming down the steps as they approached.

  “Captain, good afternoon.” Koenrad extended his hand. “I’m Colonel Koenrad. I trust you can enlighten me as to the reason for your unannounced arrival?”

  Ford shook the extended hand and proceeded to explain the situation, taking care to mention that they had expected the Australians to relay information about their arrival and that, apparently, there had been some sort of breakdown in communications.

  Koenrad considered this explanation. “Well, Captain, it is very possible that, considering the confused situation, red tape and all that, that the message about your arrival has been delayed somewhere. I must say, however, that you and your crew are very lucky fellows. Our fighter boys have been itching for a fight ever since the Japanese attack. Normally our attack orders are issued on the ground-air radio. We have been having severe supply problems and the condition of our communications equipment is somewhat precarious. You were very fortunate that the radio was working today, because most of the time it is not. Without direct orders from me it is highly likely that our fighters would have shot you down just as a precaution. You understand, of course, that we can not be too careful. We have had several air raids in the past few weeks and the situation is very tense.”

  “That’s understandable,” Ford said with a wry smile

  “And of course,” Koenrad added, “we were very concerned when you landed outside the breakwater in the open channel. You see, that area is heavily mined as a protection against enemy surface ships approaching the harbor. That is why our patrol boat kept its distance while waving you in. It seems you and your crew were doubly lucky.”

  Ford shook his head at this description of the second and unknown threat to the flight. “So it seems. I hope we don’t have that kind of a gauntlet to run elsewhere in our journey. However,” and here he changed the subject, “I hope we can arrange to have advance notification of our proposed route forwarded with some assurance that it will be delivered. Is there any way we can arrange for confirmed notifications? I can give you a list of our proposed stopover points.”

  Koenrad took note of Ford’s list of proposed stops and promised to do his best to have the confirmed messages sent ahead.

  “Also, Colonel,” Ford asked, “we will need to refuel with 100 octane aviation fuel. We have US dollars to pay for it.”

  Koenrad frowned. “I’m sorry Captain, but our supply of 100 octane is very limited. We must give priority to our fighter aircraft. However, we can off regular 90 octane, if you can use that.”

  Ford considered this for a moment. He knew that anything less than 100 octane could cause mis-firing and cylinder damage if the high compression GR2600 engines were to run on the lower octane fuel for any extended time. But they had just about used up their load of 100 octane on the flight from Darwin. There appeared to be no choice but to take the 90 octane and hope for the best.

  “Very well. I’ll check with my flight engineer. We may be able to adjust our fuel mixtures to compensate for the lower octane. Meanwhile, are there any overnight accommodations we can use?”

  “Our barracks are totally occupied. There is only one hotel in town – the Orange – but it is booked full also. Three of your American Naval ships are in port and most of the seamen are on shore leave. Some expect to depart tomorrow, but for this evening there seems to be no available accommodations.”

  “In that case we’ll just spend the night on board the aircraft. Can I bring my crew ashore for dinner? And then we’ll return to the ship for the night.”

  “Yes, that will be satisfactory,” Koenrad agreed. “But if you will continue to Ceylon and India, we must insist that you and your crew be given inoculations for typhus, dysentery, and cholera. The sanitary conditions in some of the places you will be going to are considered very risky at this time.”

  Ford frowned and shrugged. “Well, if we must... I’ll have the crew available when you can arrange it.”

  They shook hands again and Ford returned to the Clipper. The rest of the crew boarded the boat and went ashore. In the Dutch pilots’ officers’ mess they talked with the young fighter pilots who, earlier, had almost shot them down. They all agreed that the Clipper crew had been very, very lucky.

  Following dinner, Ford and his crew returned to the Clipper. On the verge of exhaustion, each of them selected a bunk and promptly dozed off for a long-delayed good night’s sleep. Refueling the Boeing would have to wait until morning.

  Crew members at their stations on the flight deck.

  From L to R: Navigator, Pilot and Co-Pilot, Radio Officer, Engineering Officer

  CHAPTER X

  EDGE OF THE WAR ZONE

  On the morning of December 19th, John Steers heard the sound first. He had slept in one of the main cabin bunks near the sea wing entry hatch. The banging sound seemed far off at first, as if it were part of some dream. But, as it continued to intrude on his senses, he awoke to realize that someone was banging on the hatch from the outside.

  “Okay! Okay!” he finally called aloud. “Just a minute!”

  When he opened the hatch he saw the harbormaster from the evening before standing on the sea wing smiling at him.

  “Good morning, sir!” the harbormaster greeted him. “May we speak to your captain? We need to arrange for your refueling. Also we can take you ashore for breakfast if you wish.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Steers replied, still groggy from too little sleep. “Just a minute and I’ll get him for you.”

  He made his way to the forward crew compartment where Bob Ford had bunked down. By now the rest of the crew were also stirring awake.

  “What is it, Johnny?” Ford asked, as he crawled out of the bunk.

  “The Dutch harbormaster is alongside. Wants to see about refueling. And he says we can come ashore for breakfast.”

  “Okay, I’ll talk to him. Might as well do that. The refueling could take some time.”

  Ford came to the open hatch where the harbormaster was waiting. “Good morning, sir. I understand you are ready to refuel us?”

  “Yes, Captain. My crew can bring the petrol out as soon as you give the word.”

  “Let me talk to my flight engineer first. Your Colonel Koenrad said we could get only 90 octane auto gas. We may have to make some fuel management adjustments to compensate for the lower octane. Shouldn’t take too long. Meanwhile, can you take the rest of my crew ashore?”

  “Yes, that will be fine. We’ll take them ashore, then return with the petrol.”

  All the crew members, except Ford, Swede Rothe, and J
ocko Parrish, boarded the patrol boat and went ashore. As soon as they were clear, Ford turned to Rothe.

  “Swede,” he explained, “they can only give us 90 octane auto gas. What’s the status of our remaining 100 octane?”

  “The lower sea wing tanks are down to one third and the outboard mains are just about dry. I suggest we transfer all the remaining 100 octane to the inboard mains where we can reserve it for takeoff and landing. Load the 90 octane into the other tanks and try to use it only for en route cruising. That way, if we run into any power problems like pre-detonation or backfiring it won’t be during critical takeoff or landing operations.”

  “Okay, let’s do it.”

  The trio returned to the flight deck. Rothe powered up the auxiliary power generator and switched on the fuel transfer pumps. Soon, the remaining 100 octane was transferred from the sea wing tanks and outboard tanks to the main inboards. Rothe studied the gauges on the main tanks.

  “It’s not as much as I’d like to see,” he advised Ford, “but it should be enough for takeoff and climb to altitude. I just hope we won’t have to fly on that 90 octane stuff for too long. Even leaned out to optimum, we’re likely to get some backfiring and high cylinder temps that could raise hell with the pistons.”

  “I agree, Swede, but we don’t have much choice. It’s either take the 90 octane or be stranded here for who knows how long before they’d agree to give us the 100 octane. And this war isn’t getting any better. The sooner we can get this ship out of the war zone, the better I’ll feel about our situation.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. We’ll just have to play it by ear. My guess is that we’re going to need some of those spare engine parts we’ve got on board before we get back to Company territory.”

  A refueling boat with the load of 90 octane gas was dispatched to the Clipper. As soon as the sea wing and outboard wing tanks had been filled, Ford and his two flight engineers secured the ship and went ashore to join the other crew members at the officers’ mess for breakfast. As they were finishing their meal, Colonel Koenrad approached their table.