by Ed Dover
Ford shrugged. “Whatever works. Just get us clearance.”
Just before takeoff Ford huddled with Rod Brown. “Rod, the British say we can’t go direct, so we have to head north for a while. Refigure a course and estimate until we can decide when it will be safe to head west.”
Once at altitude, Swede Rothe attempted to lean out the mixtures, only to produce the by-now familiar popping and backfiring as the engines protested against the diet of lower octane fuel. Using an optimum setting to minimize the backfiring, they settled into a cruising altitude of 10,000 feet which took them above a solid undercast of clouds. Ford contemplated the broad cloud deck below and then made a decision.
“What the hell!” he announced. “With this undercast they’ll never know we’re up here. Let’s get back to our original course. I doubt that they have any way to detect our presence.”
With that, he swung the Boeing around and headed west-southwest to pick up their original course. With the engines popping occasionally, they continued above the clouds. In a few hours they were almost across the Arabian Peninsula. Then the clouds began to break up. Just as they came into the clear, Johnny Mack looked down and saw an unusual sight. They were flying directly over the Great Mosque at Mecca. Thousands of people – looking like ants swarming out of an ant hill – were streaming out of the Mosque and hundreds of flashes of light were appearing. “Hey, Bob, I do believe those folks are shooting at us!”
Ford looked down also. “I don’t think that’ll do them much good. Looks like mostly rifle fire of some kind. Can’t possibly reach us at this altitude.”
“Just as long as these engines keep going. I’d hate to be down there amongst them right now.”
Mecca receded slowly behind them and soon was lost to view in the tropical haze. Soon they crossed the shoreline and headed across the Red Sea. By late afternoon they had intercepted the Nile and followed it to Khartoum, where they landed in the river. While the crew remained on board, Ford went ashore in a dinghy to hunt up the British commander and arrange once again for refueling. “Swede, you check those engines thoroughly while we’re here. No telling how much damage that lousy auto gas has done. I know we can get avgas at Leopoldville, but we still have to get out of here. I’m going to check around for avgas. When you’re done checking the engines, you and the rest of the crew remain on board until I can see to our overnight accommodations.”
Fortunately, Ford found that 100 octane aviation fuel was readily available, and he arranged for refueling for the next day. The RAF provided him with charts covering the entire route from Khartoum to Leopoldville. They would no longer be dependent on the makeshift atlases and maps they had obtained at Auckland. While at the British dispatch office, Ford was approached by the dispatcher.
“Captain Ford, we have received a dispatch from Command Headquarters at Cairo, requesting that you wait here for a VIP passenger coming in via BOAC who will be going to Leopoldville with you. The BOAC aircraft is expected to arrive some time in the next day or two.”
“You mean we’re being ordered to wait here?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. It seems you are the only available transport from here to Leopoldville at this time.”
Ford sighed. “I hope he’s ‘VIP’ enough to justify delaying us like this. We’d sure like to get away as soon as possible and get this damn trip over with!”
“I can understand your concern, Captain,” the dispatcher tried to be conciliatory, “but we have these orders from Command headquarters in Cairo. Can’t very well ignore them.”
“No, I suppose not. Well, can you at least arrange for some decent accommodations for my crew? They might as well relax and enjoy themselves if they have to sit around here twiddling their thumbs for a couple of days.”
The dispatcher assured him that overnight accommodations would be forthcoming. He arranged for billeting at the Grand Hotel. Ford returned to the ship to break the news to the crew and bring them ashore for the night.
“Damn! What a waste of time!” Johnny Mack exclaimed in disgust. He had just heard about the arrival of the VIP passenger they had waited two days to receive. “She’s no more a VIP than I am!”
It turned out that the so-called VIP passenger was the wife of a minor British supply officer who had fast-talked her way onto the VIP passenger list for transport to Leopoldville.
Ford tried to placate him. “It’s water under the bridge now, Johnny. Let’s just get on with it and get the hell out of here as soon as possible. Once we reach Leopoldville we’ll be back in Company territory and that should count for something toward finishing up this little detour of ours.”
The rest of New Year’s Eve day was spent refueling. For a time it looked as if they would not be able to take on a full load of fuel because of the very short seaplane channel area marked off along the Nile. A full gross load would require a longer takeoff run.
“This chart shows that the marked channel for seaplane operations is only 1,300 yards long,” Swede Rothe explained. “The only way we can get airborne in that distance is to lighten up our load and the only way we can do that is to limit the amount of gas we take aboard. We’ll never make it to Leopoldville that way and we’d have to find an intermediate stop to refuel.”
Ford studied the chart. “What are the chances we could use a longer area – go outside the marked seaplane channel?”
“Chancy, Skipper. We’d have to set up a special sweep to make sure we have an obstruction-free zone. Might take a while and I don’t know if there is that much clear area outside the charted channel.”
“Let’s find out. I’d just as soon take on a full load of gas and go direct to Leopoldville.”
John Steers had been listening closely to this conversation. “Hell, Skipper, I saw where the Limey boys have a small speedboat tied up at that small dock. I think we could get them to take us out to survey the area. It shouldn’t take too long to find out if we’ve got a long enough clearway for a full-gross takeoff.”
“Okay, do it.”
In a few minutes John Steers, two British soldiers, and a couple of Egyptian river pilots, were all motoring up the Nile looking for a likely takeoff channel that would be long enough. With the river chart on his lap, Steers marked off distances as they searched for hidden sand bars, rocks, or other obstructions that might be in the way. Finally, after about forty minutes, he had traced a clear channel three miles long. “That should do it,” he called to the river pilots. “Let’s head back.”
By the time they got back to the Boeing it was getting dark. Ford looked at the area on Steers’ chart. “If you’re sure of those marks, that should be okay for full-gross takeoff. Let’s get on with the refueling. But I think we should all spend the night here. That way we can start in the morning at first light.”
On New Year’s Day, 1942, NC18602 surged forward as Bob Ford held the throttles full open and concentrated his gaze toward the far end of the three mile takeoff area that John Steers had marked on the chart. I hope John didn’t miss any obstructions, Ford thought, as he watched the dirty yellow river water rush past the bow. This sure isn’t the time to get hung up on a tree snag or sandbar.
The Wright engines seemed to be running smoothly today. The steady roar was reassuring, after all the trouble the 90 octane auto gas had caused. Ford glanced at the airspeed. As it hit 70 knots he started his usual rocking motion on the yoke to break the big hull free of the water. The slap of the water stopped abruptly as the big machine came unstuck and started to climb. Just as abruptly there was a loud popping noise and the smooth roar of the engines was joined by a new sound. A rapid, pulsating hammering.
“What the hell is that!” Ford exclaimed. “Swede, what gives?”
“Don’t know, Skipper,” Rothe called out. “All gauges show normal. Still a little high on head temps, but no power loss.” He turned to Jocko Parrish. “High-tail it up to the navigator’s dome and check the engines from there.”
Parrish hurried through the hatch to the rear
baggage area, climbed the ladder, scanned the tops of the engine cowling, and took only a second to see what had happened. Quickly he returned to the flight deck. “Number One has lost the aft section of its exhaust stack. It must have blown loose. That exhaust plume is streaming out right over the wing surface.”
Rothe relayed the report to Ford.
Ford swore. “Now what? Swede, can we fly this way?”
“Engine gauges are good. We’re not losing power. In fact we’re still climbing. I think you can throttle back to standard cruise climb now.”
Ford eased back on the throttles and the Boeing settled into its standard 500 feet-per-minute climb. He glanced quickly out his side window toward the damaged engine. He could see nothing wrong. The broken exhaust stack was above the wing, out of his line of vision. The only evidence of its condition was the constant hammering noise that was now just one part of the mixture of engine sounds filling the flight deck
“Want to turn back and land?” Johnny Mack asked.
“I don’t know what good that’d do,” Ford reasoned. “No spare parts here and we don’t have a spare exhaust stack on board. There’s just no way we can fix it here. What’s the risk of flying with it as is?”
“It jacks up the fire hazard odds,” Rothe explained. “If we’re lucky it shouldn’t affect engine performance any. Just makes it damn noisy.”
Ford mulled this over for a few seconds. Then he decided. “We’ll go on. Post a man in the navigation dome and keep a constant watch on that engine. Swede, stay on those temperature gauges. The only way we’re going to turn back now is if that engine fails completely. As long as it’s putting out rated power we’ll use it. Now let’s all settle in and tend to business.”
As soon as they left the Nile Valley they were over open, rolling hill country. There were only a few villages in what appeared to be an empty vastness. Continuing south, they passed a range of low hills and the vegetation became denser. Soon they were flying over a green carpet of the African tropical forest, interspersed with small streams and the occasional road. After a few hours the vegetation was so dense that it hid the landmarks they were trying to use for navigation. For a long while they had to fall back on dead reckoning, hoping the winds would not take them too far off course. Finally, they sighted the Congo River, whose sheer size made it unmistakable, and descended low enough to follow it toward Leopoldville. The coffee-colored water stood out boldly against the jungle growth on all sides. Ten hours and 23 minutes out of Khartoum, Ford lined up as best he could on the winding river and eased the big ship onto the surface. As the Boeing slowed and settled, Ford felt the tug of the river current. He had thought it to be a sluggish current when viewed from the air. But the flow was much stronger. Ford estimated that the river was running at about six knots. They would have to find a secure anchorage.
Pan American was just beginning to build its African bases when the war came along. The one at Leopoldville was still in its early phases of construction. As a result, the facilities were still somewhat limited. Ford discovered that they would not be able to repair the broken exhaust stack. The spare parts inventory had not as yet been established. They would have to endure the hammering engine until they reached Natal. The only good news was that the supply of aviation fuel was plentiful. They would no longer be plagued by the poor performance of the 90 octane auto gas. Ford arranged for refueling and then he and the crew went ashore and checked into the Grand Hotel to snatch what sleep they could. It was the hottest, muggiest climate they had experienced thus far and the netting over their beds did little to protect them from the swarms of mosquitoes that managed to find their way through.
“Just count the bites,” John Steers advised, wryly. “Then you can figure out how many scotch and sodas you’ll need to counteract them. One each ought to do the job!”
CHAPTER XIV
ACROSS THE ATLANTIC
“If we top brimful on all tanks, Swede, how much over allowable gross weight would we be?” Ford queried his chief engineer.
Swede Rothe pondered the question. The normal gross weight of 82,500 pounds was based upon a carefully calculated compromise of the allocation of fuel, cargo, passengers, and the length of the flight.
This leg from Leopoldville to Natal, Brazil, would be the longest flight leg the Clipper had ever covered: 3,100 nautical miles, most of it over open ocean.[11] There would be no place to refuel if they went below the allowable reserve supply. And if they had to use up the reserve they would have to consider a forced landing at sea. The Boeing might survive the landing, but it was never designed for extended surface operations on the open ocean. Ocean waves and wind would most likely make short work of the ship and they would then find themselves adrift in the inflatable life rafts, hoping for a rescue that might or might not come. Passengers posed no problem as there were none on board. The collection of spare engine parts scattered throughout the lower cabin added some additional weight but the big unknown was how much fuel to take aboard, considering the length of the proposed flight, the possible headwinds, and the conditions for a safe landing.
“Well, Skipper,” Rothe replied, “it’s possible to load as much as 5,100 gallons of fuel on board. But that would put us about 2,000 pounds over gross, even without any passengers or spare parts. If we were taking off in a cold climate with real low temperatures I’d say it would be no problem, but this damned heat plays hell with density altitude[12]. We’d need a helluva long takeoff channel to get off.”
Ford pondered this advice. “This river is pretty long. There’s not really any high terrain to clear after takeoff. What do you think?”
Rothe shrugged. “If we have no engine glitches and we can get off within the full-power parameters, I’d say let’s go for it.”
“Okay then, you get those tanks topped brim-full and we’ll get out of this hell hole as soon as you’re done.”
It was midday before all the fuel was loaded. The crew had come on board earlier and now most of them were eager to get going. The stifling heat and humidity made the flight deck feel like a Turkish bath; and the sooner they could get to altitude with cooler air circulating through the cabin, the better they would like it. But before they could go Ford had to consider one other factor that would affect the takeoff.
When they had landed the day before, he had noted the strong current running in the Congo. The downstream flow was about six knots. The light breeze was blowing downstream also, at about four knots. He could elect to take off upstream, against the wind, but that would give him a six knot drag from the current. This could pose a problem when it came time to haul the big flying boat off the water. If he took off downstream, he would lose the four knot airspeed advantage, but pick up a six knot push from the current that would help get the hull out of the water. After considering the alternatives, Ford made his decision. They would take off downstream.
“Okay, Johnny,” he turned to Johnny Mack, “we taxi upstream as far as the next bend in the river. Then we take off downstream. With this heat, I’m thinking we’d get a better advantage from the six knot current than from the four knot headwind.”
“Downstream it is then,” Mack agreed.
The temperature was hovering around the 100 degree mark. Everyone was wringing wet with sweat as they took their places on the flight deck. With all engines started and bow lines cast off, Ford shoved the throttles forward, swung around and headed upstream. When they reached the first bend he swung around again. Immediately he could feel the current carrying them downstream.
“Let’s not waste time, Swede. Full takeoff power, NOW!”
The engines roared. The Number One engine, still without its exhaust stack, added the trip-hammer beat of its unmuffled power to the swelling sound. NC18602 surged forward, aided by the six knot current. Bob Ford concentrated his gaze far ahead, down river to the start of the Congo Gorges: the series of cataracts, rapids, and waterfalls amidst a jumbled maze of canyons and rocks, where the river began a steeper descent toward the se
a. They would have to be airborne well before reaching that drop-off point. If not... Ford preferred not to think about it.
With his left hand pressing the throttles hard against the full power stops, his right hand grasping the yoke, and his eyes concentrating on the river ahead, he mentally measured the rapidly decreasing distance to the gorge.
Below, in the main cabin, Second Engineer John Parrish watched as the spray whipped over the sea wing. He was aware that the aircraft was well over normal gross weight, and mentally counted the seconds toward what he knew was the maximum allowable time for a full-power takeoff: ninety seconds. Twenty seconds went by. Thirty seconds. Still no liftoff. The spray continued to fly past his window. The surface of the river was just as close as ever. Hell! He thought, get this mother up on the step! With every passing second he had visions of the big ship running off the edge of the gorge, smashing into the rocks. He wondered how big an explosion 5,100 gallons of 100 octane fuel would make. Subconsciously he cinched his seat belt tighter and stiffened his body against what he thought might be the impact and the final moments of his life.
Bob Ford glanced quickly at the airspeed indicator. Seventy knots – the design-rated landing/stall speed. As the airspeed needle crept above that mark he gently brought the wheel back. The Clipper’s bow rose above the horizon but it did not break off the water. He let the wheel forward again. With the bow down he could see the edge of the gorge 1,700 yards away. More speed, he needed more speed to break the suction. He kept the nose down, hoping to build up the airspeed.
Fifty seconds now. Sixty. Seventy. Then he decided. If we don’t break off in another twenty seconds I’ll pull back three engines but keep Number One at full power. Its torque will swing us around and we can head upstream. All eyes on the flight deck were fixed on the rapidly approaching gorge. No one uttered a word. Ford adjusted his grip on the throttles. He flexed his left hand. At that moment NC18602 came off the water.