Frozen in Time

by Mitchell Zuckoff

  Next in line to burst Lou’s bubble is Lieutenant Colonel Patrick Christian, who’s been patient while explaining intricacies of the government and military bureaucracy. He addresses Lou as he might a child: “Finding a little plane in this big, wide world is not an easy thing,” he says. “We want to help. We just don’t want to say anything to make you think we can do more than we can.”

  My translation: You haven’t a prayer of getting a dime here. Lou theoretically could mount an expedition on his own, without DPMO’s money or formal approval. But he’d have to raise the funds from private sources and win permits from officials in Greenland. The odds of that are slim to none.

  Lou plows ahead as though McDonough and Christian have just offered him an all-expenses-paid, fly-drive trip to the Greenland ice cap. Dejected, I doodle in my notebook, sketching Lou’s Duck mission patch with a slash through it.

  McDonough asks Lou point-blank, “Do you have the resources to accomplish what you want in Greenland without the support of the United States government?”

  Lou hesitates before answering: “That’s a tricky question.” Translation: No.

  McDonough clearly doesn’t think the question was tricky, but he’s game. He asks slower and with more volume, “Can . . . you . . . do . . . this . . . without . . . government . . . support?”

  I feel embarrassed for Lou, but he dodges again: “Well, there are all different kinds of support.” For starters, he says, it would be great if the government would supply a military C-130 Hercules transport plane to carry his team and equipment to Greenland. That might be worth several hundred thousand dollars.

  I begin to wonder if Lou has a hearing problem. McDonough looks down at the table and says nothing. The room goes silent.

  After an awkward minute, seemingly out of nowhere, the Coast Guard flies to Lou’s rescue. A calm, deep voice from the far side of the table chimes in: “I anticipate that if we get a request for a C-130, we will submit the request.” It’s the first upbeat note after a two-hour dirge.

  The voice belongs to Commander Jim Blow of the Coast Guard’s Office of Aviation Forces, who’s worked with Lou off and on for several years. Recruiting-poster handsome, trim and fit, with a square chin and short dark hair flecked with gray, Blow is one of many Coast Guard fliers who are the spiritual heirs of two of the service’s greatest heroes: John Pritchard Jr. and Benjamin Bottoms, the Duck’s missing crewmen.

  As Blow knows, of the eighty-three thousand American servicemen and -women who remain unaccounted for, only three served in the Coast Guard. One is a lieutenant who died in a Japanese prison camp during World War II and whose remains are considered unrecoverable. The other two are Pritchard and Bottoms. By helping Lou to bring home the Duck’s crew, Blow would be honoring a promise to do everything possible to leave no man behind.

  When he agrees to seek government assets on Lou’s behalf, or more accurately on behalf of the lost men and their families, Blow sounds tempted to call out the Coast Guard’s motto: “Semper Paratus,” Latin for “Always Ready.”

  “I think we can do it,” Blow says confidently.

  Lou relaxes. We shake hands with everyone around the table and leave.

  OVER A STEAK lunch at the airport Chili’s restaurant, a cheerful Lou says he’s more confident than ever. He’s still woefully short on money, and he’s nowhere near certain where to dig through the ice for the lost plane. Nevertheless, Lou believes that he and his team, which now includes me, will solve an enduring mystery of World War II: What happened to the Duck and the three men it carried?

  As we’re leaving, Lou slaps a meaty hand on my shoulder. “That went well, man,” he says. “Didn’t you think?”

  I agree, not mentioning the yawning gap in the budget, the logistical and technical challenges ahead, or the doubts that I shared with my notebook before the Coast Guard arrived, cavalry-style.

  A serene look crosses Lou’s face. He repeats a comment I’ve heard him make several times before. Previously, he said it with a question mark hanging almost imperceptibly in the air. This time there’s none of that: “We’re gonna bring these men home.”

  The Duck Hunt is on.

  5

  A SHALLOW TURN

  NOVEMBER 1942

  THREE HOURS INTO the search, pilot Armand Monteverde was lost in the blinding whiteness that enveloped his B-17. He didn’t know his altitude above the ice, what lay ahead, or what was left or right beyond the tips of the PN9E’s outstretched wings. Maybe it was a harmless snow-filled cloud. Or maybe it was a concrete-hard glacier. Somewhere below was the downed C-53 that Monteverde and his crew were searching for, but they couldn’t see anything in the sky, much less on the ground. More to the point, the missing cargo plane was now a distant second in priority, behind their own survival.

  Monteverde was twenty-seven, an unmarried first lieutenant from Anaheim, California. Built like a wrestler, short, stout, and broad-shouldered, he had sad green-gray eyes, a full lower lip, a narrow face, and a Roman nose. Instead of stereotypical pilot bravado, he had a mild manner and a gentle voice that gave him an air of quiet competence. His crewmates ribbed him for being a California boy, but they liked and trusted him. Unlike some officers, they knew that Monteverde had come up the hard way. He’d paid for flight school by working nights in a gas station, then flew for a cargo airline in Mexico before joining the Army Air Forces. A capable pilot, Monteverde had logged seven hundred hours of flight time, though only fifteen of them in the cockpit of a B-17.

  LIEUTENANT ARMAND MONTEVERDE, PILOT OF THE B-17 PN9E. (U.S. COAST GUARD PHOTOGRAPH.)

  His copilot, Harry Spencer Jr., was a twenty-two-year-old second lieutenant from Dallas. Six-foot-one, blond, hazel-eyed, lean, and cowboy handsome, Spencer had a cleft chin and dimpled cheeks. He looked as though he’d been born to wear a white silk pilot’s scarf. But he was no arrogant golden boy. Spencer’s humble, even-keeled nature made him more suited to service as a ferry pilot than a fighter jock. Smart, well-read, and sensitive to the feelings of others, Spencer was an Eagle Scout who possessed a leader’s natural understanding of how to build a team. He’d had a busy year: he married his college girlfriend in April, learned to fly at Southern Methodist University, and joined the Army Air Corps in September.

  LIEUTENANT HARRY SPENCER, COPILOT OF THE B-17 PN9E. (U.S. COAST GUARD PHOTOGRAPH.)

  As they sat side by side in the cockpit, Monteverde and Spencer knew that if their bomber continued on its current heading, every minute of flight time would bring them about three miles farther into the unknown. Only a fool would stay the course, and neither man was a fool. They crossed “maintain present heading” off their mental checklists.

  In theory, pulling back on the control wheel and gaining altitude was a possible way out. But at the head of the Koge Bay fjord, the ice cap rises steeply to an estimated eight thousand feet above sea level. The pilots didn’t know their position above that rapid upslope, or whether they could put enough separation between their bomber and the ice before time and space ran out. But they did know that gaining that much altitude would take more time than they suspected they had. That eliminated option two, gain altitude.

  They had parachutes aboard, but bailing out wasn’t a serious option; the plane wasn’t on fire or under enemy attack, and the inside of a bomber was more attractive than the outside of the ice cap. Subtly altering course to the east or west might work, but they didn’t know whether a new heading a few degrees in either direction would mean a new lease on life or a fatal error. That would be like taking another card in blackjack without knowing what cards they’d already been dealt.

  Their last alternative, turning back toward the fjord and the open sea beyond, seemed the best choice in a bad situation. The primary risk would be if, unknown to the pilots, the B-17 was less than one hundred feet above the ground. A world of white is a confusing place, and instruments that gauged altitude above sea level were no help. Pilots in Greenland told stories of flying along blissfully, only to realize t
hey had landed, belly down on the ice. Others sheepishly described preparing to touch down when in fact they remained high above the runway.

  If, as Monteverde and Spencer believed, the PN9E’s clearance over the ice cap exceeded one hundred feet, they’d have enough room to dip one of the wings and turn the B-17 seaward. If the clearance was less, search planes from Bluie West One would soon be looking for whatever remained of them and their brand-new bomber.

  Monteverde and Spencer felt confident that they had enough altitude to execute a turn, so they trusted their guts. Spencer thought they might have as much as one thousand feet of clearance. It was their decision to make, but if they’d polled their crew, no man would have objected to the pilots’ logic.

  Among those eager to endorse any change of course was Al Tucciarone, a dark-haired twenty-eight-year-old with a proud nose and a winning smile. He’d been a laborer and truck driver back home in the Bronx, but war had transformed him into an assistant engineer on the big bomber.

  A week earlier, before leaving Presque Isle, Maine, Tucciarone had sent his fiancée, Angelina, a postcard that read, “Everything is running smoothly. Do not worry. I’m feeling fine. Will see you soon.” Now, however, none of that was true: nothing was running smoothly; he was worried; he wasn’t feeling fine; and there was a distinct possibility that he wouldn’t see Angelina soon. Tucciarone knew that they were in trouble when he looked out a window and couldn’t see five feet beyond the bomber.

  PRIVATE ALEXANDER “AL” TUCCIARONE, ASSISTANT ENGINEER ON THE PN9E. (U.S. ARMY PHOTOGRAPH.)

  To be careful, Monteverde decided to bank the plane gently at first. He eased the PN9E into a shallow turn.

  THE LEFT WINGTIP slapped the ice. The fifteen-ton bomber shook furiously. A terrible crunching sound exploded inside the plane. Men not strapped into their seats flew like confetti. After touching the ground, the wingtip bounced back up, leveling the plane. But the PN9E was no longer flying, and it wasn’t a fortress. It was a giant bobsled, sliding, careening, and carving a groove into the glacier. As it slowed, the bomber turned like a weathervane, its nose pointing due north into the wind.

  The B-17 skidded more than two hundred yards across the ice, then came to an abrupt halt. The sudden stop catapulted flight engineer Paul Spina through a window on the roof of the radio compartment. Spina landed prone in the snow with no jacket, no shoes, no gloves, and no flight helmet. He’d taken off his jacket and boots when he lay down, and the force of being launched from the plane must have torn off his gloves and helmet. Spina was stunned, bleeding, and exposed to freezing temperatures. Both bones in his right forearm were broken close to the wrist. His hands and feet were cut, and frostbite clamped down on his toes and fingers.

  Spina couldn’t see the plane or any of his crewmates through the blinding, windblown snow. Partly for warmth and partly in despair, he tried to hide his face in his frozen hands. Another crewman heard him cry out, “Somebody pull me in—I’m freezing.” He began to stand, but as he did everything went black. Spina passed out. The dark-haired private, five foot four and less than 150 pounds, would soon freeze to death unless someone helped him.

  Also needing help was one of the volunteer searchers, Alfred “Clint” Best. When the plane stopped sliding, Best flew from the bombardier’s seat through the broken Plexiglas nose: the PN9E had sneezed him onto Greenland. Twenty-five years old, thickset, quiet, and introverted, a bookkeeper in civilian life, Best suffered a cut on top of his head and a bruised knee. The other volunteer searcher, Best’s friend Lloyd “Woody” Puryear, climbed out through the broken nose to pull Best back inside. He suffered cuts and bruises.

  Clarence Wedel, who’d come aboard as a passenger in Goose Bay, bounced from one end of the B-17’s cabin to the other. Wedel rose from the deck with cuts on his face and a black eye that left his eyeball red and inflamed.

  Al Tucciarone, the assistant engineer, and Loren “Lolly” Howarth, the radio operator, were strapped into the radio room’s bucket seats, so they fared better. A blow to the chest left Tucciarone weak, with a couple of broken ribs but not grievously injured. Howarth sustained a cut on his head. The three officers, Monteverde, Spencer, and O’Hara, emerged from the crash dazed but unhurt.

  Incredibly, all nine men were alive. The plane was another story.

  When the PN9E’s fuselage struck the ground, the metal buckled and twisted. The fearsome symbol of American air power broke in two, like a balsa-wood model in the hands of an angry child. The break came behind the wings, separating the front section—the nose, the cockpit, the navigator’s compartment, and the radio compartment—from the waist section and tail. During construction, a metal band had been riveted into place, almost like a zipper, attaching prefabricated sections of the plane. On impact with the ice, it unzipped. Yet even after breaking apart, both front and rear sections of the bomber had plowed the ice along the same path, as though connected by memory. When the broken B-17 stopped skidding, the nose and tail sections were separated by about a dozen feet, like a salami with a chunk sliced from the middle.

  The twelve-foot metal propellers of both left-side engines were shredded. The tips of the right-side propellers curled like ribbons. The metal skin of the fuselage outside the radio compartment was torn away. The left outboard engine hung limp from its mountings. High-octane fuel spilled from the left wing and from auxiliary tanks, drenching the radio compartment and the bomb bay. The PN9E was a wreck.

  Still in the cockpit, Monteverde gathered his wits. The collision between the left wingtip and the ice cap came as such a surprise that his mind refused to absorb it. He’d dipped the wing a few degrees, for a few seconds, just beginning his turn. A complete circle was 360 degrees; the PN9E had banked only about 10 degrees when everything went haywire. His immediate, irrational thought was that one of the four engines had flamed out. But Monteverde’s head cleared and he understood the truth: the wingtip had sliced into a glacier, and the PN9E was down.

  Monteverde heard an ominous hissing sound around the cabin. Convinced that his wrecked plane was on fire, he unbuckled and scrambled out through a broken cockpit window. Once outside, Monteverde realized that the hissing sound was dry, sandy snow thrashing against the metal. He looked around and saw Spina, bloodied and unconscious near the silent left engines. Bill O’Hara followed Monteverde through the window. The navigator leaped into deep snow, soaking his leather boots, and joined Monteverde at Spina’s side. The two officers carried Spina inside the B-17’s torn-open tail section to treat his wounds.

  Soon all nine of the PN9E’s crewmen were crammed together inside the bomber’s rear end, stunned and freezing. Outside, the snowstorm raged.

  ONE CONSOLATION WAS that Monteverde’s decision to ease the plane into a shallow turn had probably saved their lives. Had he continued flying ahead, they would have struck the ice cap nose-first, with potentially explosive results. Had they parachuted out, the cold would have killed them if the jump hadn’t. If Monteverde had banked hard, pointing the left wingtip sharply downward, the PN9E might have cartwheeled tail over nose when it touched the ground, tearing apart the plane, with predictable results for the men inside.

  Later, the military would declare that the crash was caused by “lack of depth perception due to blending of overcast and heavy blowing snow.” It was a formal way of saying “flying in milk.” In the military way of things, Monteverde received sixty percent of the blame, while the weather was faulted for the remaining forty percent. “The pilot is considered to be responsible for this accident,” the official investigation found, “in that he flew over the Ice Cap under an overcast contrary to instructions” during preflight briefings. It continued: “He was overzealous in attempting a hazardous operation and did not have the proper training to accomplish the mission safely.” The review board recommended that in the future, pilots like Monteverde “not be sent over this route classified as experienced with the small amount of time shown by this Officer.”

  He never publicly objected to
the finding, but to a large extent Monteverde was blamed for forces beyond his control. He’d been found guilty of being inexperienced, for following orders to conduct a search in bad weather, and for failing to transform himself from a ferry pilot on his first overseas mission into a grizzled Arctic search pilot familiar with the treachery of lost horizons.

  For now, though, worrying about blame took a back seat to survival. Monteverde and his crew had been sent over the ice cap to find a crashed C-53. Instead, for the second time in four days, an American military plane had gone down in an undetermined location on the frozen, largely uncharted east coast of Greenland. When the top brass at Bluie West One awoke that morning, five American airmen had been in danger of freezing or starving to death. Now the number was fourteen.

  MONTEVERDE AND HIS crew didn’t know it yet, but the PN9E had come to rest about seven miles north of the Koge Bay fjord, on a glacier approximately four thousand feet above sea level. On a clear day, the landscape looked from the sky like an unbroken sheet of ice. But up close, it was scarred by windblown waves of snow called sastrugi and crisscrossed by deep crevasses. Many crevasses were covered by natural bridges of accumulating snow and ice that made them impossible to see and therefore doubly dangerous. Some ice bridges were strong enough to bear a man’s weight. Some weren’t.

  By luck or momentum, both parts of the broken bomber had somehow glided over a long stretch of the crevasse field. Now, at rest, the bomber’s tail sat motionless near the edge of a crevasse that split the ice to an unknown depth. If the crevasse widened, or if the PN9E’s rear end slid backward, all nine men who’d taken refuge inside would fall with it into the chasm.