Calico Pennants

by David A. Ross

  Together they sat on a cold concrete step. The surroundings were familiar, the circumstances inescapable. Her eyes were calm and clear. He was transparently anxious. She placed her delicate hands in his much larger ones as she spoke in a low voice.

  “I know that if I fail, or if I’m lost, you’ll be blamed. Our backers will second-guess you for allowing me to leave on this trip. But this is my responsibility—mine alone!”

  “I’ll call or cable at every opportunity,” he promised.

  When the chief mechanic gave the ‘all-ready’ she stood up, pressed her husband’s hands again, took a deep breath, then walked from the cavernous hangar. Freddy was waiting next to the Electra. Together they boarded the plane. They waved to reporters and photographers, to relatives and spectators.

  The prep crew backed away as she throttled up the engines. The running lights were flashing as G.P. lowered his head to say a short prayer. Inside the cockpit Amelia made a final check of the instruments, adjusted her goggles, then gave a ‘thumbs up’.

  Weighted with fuel the Electra lumbered down the long runway. The crowd held its breath until the plane finally rose in the haze of daybreak. As the plane slowly climbed, the sun appeared above the aquatic horizon. Everyone watched until the Electra was out of sight. Then the crowd dispersed—all except George Palmer Putnam. He remained on the tarmac long after everyone else had gone inside.

  Their first destination was San Juan, Puerto Rico, a route that Freddy had plotted many times while navigating for Pan Am. Averaging one hundred forty-eight miles per hour, they covered the distance in just over seven hours, and Noonan’s flawless calculations estimated landfall within one minute of actual touchdown.

  From Puerto Rico they flew to Caripito, Venezuela; then on to Paramaribo, Dutch Guiana. Forteleza, a regional commercial center located along the northeast coast of Brazil boasted Ceara’s largest airport and best maintenance facility. The distance between Forteleza and Natal, Brazil’s easternmost point, Amelia covered with the aid of the Sperry autopilot.

  The flight from Natal to Dakar, Senegal crossed the Atlantic at its shortest distance. The nineteen hundred mile flight was, for the most part, uneventful, though Amelia began to smell gas fumes shortly after take-off. Unable to identify the source of the leak, she determined to have the maintenance crew at Dakar identify the problem.

  Thirteen hours into the flight they approached Cape Verde Peninsula, Africa’s westernmost point. On a fishing line installed for communication between pilot and navigator, Freddy passed forward a note describing a minor course correction: ‘Change to 36 degrees. Estimate 79 miles to Dakar from 3:36 p.m.’

  Amelia immediately scribbled and inquiry: ‘What put us north?’

  Not trusting Noonan’s fix she banked north, not south as instructed. Following the African shoreline she ended up fifty miles off course, at Saint Louis, Senegal. Forced to admit her mistake, she openly apologized to Freddy. Next morning they flew to Dakar for a layover. While the Electra was undergoing thorough scrutiny, they toured Cheikh Anta Diop University and rested up from their transatlantic crossing. They mailed home no-longer-needed South American maps and documents.

  Over equatorial Africa, en route to Khartoum, Fred Noonan found navigation to be even more difficult than over open sea. Between Fort Lamy and El Fashar the so-called landmarks were often seasonal or ambiguous: ‘swamp during rain’, or, ‘two helig trees four hundred meters apart—intersecting twenty-fourth meridian.’ But as the navigator struggled in stifling heat with mathematics and direction-finding, the quixotic pilot openly delighted at flying over places once relegated to a position only in fantasy—places such as Qala-en Hahl, Umm Shinayshin, Abu Seid, Idd el Bashir, Fazi, Marabia Abu Fas...

  From Massawa they continued down the Red Sea coast to the ancient port of Assab in Italian-controlled Eritrea. Here the temperature approached one hundred degrees, and they flew at low altitude over groups of nomad shepherds who pointed skyward with great excitement at the Electra. Amelia conjectured that it was possible many of these Tigre people had never before seen an airplane.

  Expressly forbidden to land on Arab soil, the pilot flew around the Arabian Peninsula, then northwest of the Indus River delta, all the way to Karachi. There she talked with G.P. by telephone.

  “I wish you were here,” she told him. “So many things you would enjoy... Perhaps someday we can fly together to some of the remote places of the world—just for fun!”

  At Calcutta the air field was sodden. With even more monsoon rain in the forecast, they decided to refuel and take off immediately for Burma. The plane clung to the sticky soil of the runway for what seemed like ages before the wheels finally lifted. They cleared the fringe of trees at the aerodrome’s edge with only inches to spare.

  Now en route for eighteen days, they turned inland from the Gulf of Martaban and flew twenty-five miles over saturated rice paddies to the city of Rangoon. After a formal State reception they were taken by proud and friendly Burmese officials to visit the Shwe Dagon Pagoda, the core of Burmese religious life. They learned about Alaungpaya, founder of the final royal dynasty in Burma, and about the history of Rangoon, whose name, they were told, translated roughly to mean, ‘the end of strife.’

  By now the rigors of travel coupled with the enforced manners of cultural exchange had begun to take its toll. Patience between pilot and navigator had been well tested, but even as feelings between them began to turn ambivalent, such experiences were not lightly shared.

  In Bangkok, they rode elephants and toured the exotic canal-lined streets with characteristic houses perched upon stilts. They walked through the street markets and visited the extraordinary walled Grand Palace to see the Wat Po and the Wat Emerald Buddha.

  Hemmed in by volcanic peaks covered with vegetation, Bandung, on the Island of Java, was refreshing with its cool, wet, upland climate. Here their take-off was delayed by bad weather, though neither Amelia nor Fred was particularly upset. They were tired and needed rest. Furthermore, three of the Electra’s long distance instruments had been malfunctioning. The fuel analyzer, the flow meter, and generator meter would be crucial for the upcoming over-water flights. So the equipment was repaired while they waited for a break in the monsoon.

  They finally took off from Bandung on the twenty-seventh of June. Stopping in nearby Jakarta, they indulged themselves in a dinner of rijsttafel, a traditional Indonesian feast consisting of rice with no less than twenty-one courses of fish, chicken, meats, eggs, relishes, curries, nuts, fruits, vegetables, and sauces. Unfortunately, a hit-and-run bout with dysentery followed. Already fatigued, the illness further compromised Amelia’s faltering endurance.

  En route to Port Darwin, Australia, the pilot again noticed the unmistakable smell of gasoline—a rupture whose source had so far not been identified even during several all-out overhauls. Confined and virtually immobile for long periods of time in the cockpit, the pervasive vapors made her feel ill as she flew. Mechanics in Port Darwin meticulously inspected the plane point by point, but ultimately found no breach in the fuel system.

  The relentless pace of travel dictated by State clearances was proving to be exhausting. In less than a month they’d circumnavigated two thirds of the globe, stopping infrequently for rest. At each layover numerous details demanded attention. Customs inspections and forms, fumigation of the Electra, inoculation certificates, obtaining accurate weather reports for the next segment of the trip, supervising chamois filtration of the fuel.

  The night before the Howland flight Amelia slept very little. Instead, she spent hours writing detailed articles for publication in the International Herald Tribune. Freddy was occupied socializing at Cecil Hotel’s bar with Eric Chaters, head administrator at Lea Airport.

  “As a navigator, your reputation is unquestioned, Freddy,” bolstered Chaters, “but being able to pinpoint Howland Island is going to be your ultimate test. I’m glad I won’t be sitting in your seat.”

  While his companion was nursing a beer, F
reddy Noonan had already slugged down several shots of straight whiskey. “Don’t worry, Eric,” he reassured. “I’ll have no trouble finding Howland.”

  At Lea, the Electra was serviced yet again. Oil and oil filters were changed, spark plugs were cleaned, engines checked and re-checked. The fluctuating fuel pump and Sperry autogiro were again performing erratically, so they were taken apart and repaired for the third time. Luckily, the Lea maintenance crew was thoroughly familiar with Lockheed aircraft, and both Amelia and Freddy were duly impressed by their expertise and ability.

  With the Electra left in capable hands, the pilot and navigator spent their last hours in Asia boxing up unwanted articles to be shipped home, items that included the flare pistol and its cartridges, and the two parachutes. In case of emergency these would be of little use over water.

  At last they were ready for take-off from Lea, New Guinea. Ahead lay miles of boundless ocean, an obscure island midway to Hawaii where Roosevelt’s DOC had constructed a landing strip specifically for this trip, and finally, San Francisco.

  At ten o’clock a.m., loaded with more than a thousand gallons of fuel, the Electra moved over Lea’s unpaved runway without so much as a breeze to help lift the overburdened plane into the air. The craft gained speed as it hurtled toward the seaward end of the runway, and as the wheels hit the crest of the runway’s tip, the plane virtually bounced into the air. At first unable to gain altitude due to the heavy load, the Electra hovered only a few feet above the swells, its props spraying sea water onto the windshield of the cockpit. Coaxed by the capable pilot, it finally began to climb. Slowly it rose to a hundred feet, then five hundred. As it disappeared from view, Amelia’s Lockheed was still no more than a thousand feet above the ocean.

  Right from the beginning head winds were stronger than forecasted, and fuel consumption was proportionately greater than expected. Yet, with the crescent-shaped coast of New Britain on her left, and Bougainvillea Island just ahead, the pilot was glad to finally embark upon this long-anticipated flight over the Pacific. She knew the dangers, but they’d planned well. And if she’d ever doubted her navigator’s ability, she was now thoroughly convinced of his skill. For even across North Africa, where landmarks were few, and gaining a sense of direction seemed all but impossible, Freddy’s readings had been flawless. Throughout the trip he’d kept them precisely on course and delivered them to each destination virtually within minutes of his projection.

  Yet she knew that navigating the Pacific posed unique problems. And there remained the intriguing side bar of President Roosevelt’s clandestine picture-taking detour—a service both she and Fred agreed they were willing to render.

  But as she radioed her position over Nukumanu, Amelia realized she was already running a full hour behind her flight plan. Only a third of the way to Howland, she understood there was virtually no way of making up the lost time, thereby compromising range due to increased fuel consumption. To make matters more difficult, the clouds had grown thick as they flew northeast. Noonan passed her a note on the inter-cabin fishing line that read: ‘Six hours on dead reckoning. Need celestial fix. Can you climb on top?’

  Amelia powered up the engines with a rich fuel mixture, and the Electra responded immediately. Up they rose above cruising altitude. Trying to break through the dense ceiling, the wings began to ice over, and the pilot was forced to descend without gaining the navigator’s needed reading. Shortly, she found a break in the clouds and tried again. This attempt consumed even more fuel than the first try, however the effort proved worthwhile. The navigator was able to establish position. Now a crucial question demanded an answer: Should they turn north toward Truk Island in the Carolines, or should they abort their ancillary mission because of adverse flying conditions?

  ‘How’s the fuel consumption curve?’ Freddy wanted to know.

  Amelia scribbled a note and reeled it back into Freddy’s compartment amidst the auxiliary fuel tanks. ‘I think we’re O.K. Weather questionable...’

  ‘We go on your judgment,’ came the reply.

  AE was flattered by Freddy’s trust, and a little surprised by his courage. All else in the balance, she could not disappoint the president. ‘Please describe alternate heading,’ she wrote. In a matter of minutes the course adjustment was in her hand.

  But immediately after turning north they began to encounter difficult weather. Not wanting to fly directly into rain squalls, the pilot tried to steer the plane around each approaching storm center, flying fifty miles due north of one, thirty miles south of another. Increased wind velocity made the plane drift consistently starboard, rendering the gyroscopic compass and the autopilot quite useless. She calmly searched heavy skies for a ‘soft spot’ in the storm, but unwittingly flew right into the nucleus of the tempest.

  The Electra bounced and pitched with a vengeance. Lightning illuminated the churning storm clouds in their flight path, and rain beat against the windshield, nullifying all sense of depth and direction. She fought against the twenty-five degree bank like a cowboy trying to break an obstinate horse.

  And like a semaphore flag barely visible in the ultraviolet glow of the instrument panel, a new message appeared from Noonan on the infernal fishing line. She snatched the paper off the clothespin and cursed. Her hands were busy simply trying to keep the plane level; and she was perturbed by the navigator’s question: ‘Any chance of getting on top?’

  It was ten minutes before her hands were free enough to jot a frustrated reply: ‘What am I supposed to do?’

  His response was unemotional yet to the point. ‘My compass shows us seven degrees off course.’

  Freddy was correct; they were off course. The magnetic compass was swinging so wildly that she was forced to determine a heading by averaging its readings, hoping to make corrections once they cleared the squalls.

  And her arm ached from priming the ‘wobble’ pump. Her back hurt from the ten-hour-long confinement in the four-foot by four-foot cockpit. She smelled gas again, and the odor made her feel nauseous. Becoming increasingly alarmed by the apparent rate of fuel consumption, she ciphered her own calculations. Despite bucking stiff head winds, it was not reconcilable. More fuel should have been in reserve.

  Another note along the ‘line of communication’ read: ‘Desperate for a reading. When?’

  She penciled a reply and fastened it to their peculiar conduit: ‘Should I expend fuel for another climb?’

  Freddy’s frustrated reply left no doubt: ‘We’re lost!’

  Without delay she richened the mixture and throttled up. The Electra climbed to ten thousand feet. She switched on the landing lights to determine just how thick the vapor might be. But it was impossible to see anything. So she pulled back on the stick and took the plane to eleven thousand feet, then another thousand. Still nothing. Thirteen thousand. Fourteen. That was Electra’s absolute ceiling. Where was the top?

  She tried to yell above the incessant roar of the engines, though she could barely hear the sound of her own voice. “Damn it, Freddy Noonan! Take your sextant reading now. I can’t hold it here forever!”

  She leaned into the stick for the descent. Back into the rain, the plane lurched to port. She corrected. Again it swayed. Calmly, she reacted. Then came the navigator’s note: ‘No hope for pictures at Truk Island. Must abort. New heading for Marshalls to follow. Majuro Island by sun-up.’

  Amelia hooted out loud. She sighed in relief and wiped perspiration from her face. They’d been successful; Freddy had fixed their position. They were probably low on fuel, but at least they weren’t lost...

  CHAPTER 7

  Circling Down

  WE ARE ON THE LINE OF POSITION 157 DASH 337. WILL REPEAT THIS MESSAGE. WILL REPEAT THIS MESSAGE ON 6210 kcs. WAIT/LISTENING ON 6210. WE ARE RUNNING NORTH AND SOUTH.”

  Leaning forward into the stick, the pilot pointed the nose of her Lockheed Electra dural, NR 16020, downward and guided the plane through a dense layer of cumulus clouds. Within a thick mass of gray vapor she flew bli
ndly for several minutes, the peace of a surreal aerial world broken only by the steady roar of the plane’s twin Pratt & Whitney engines.

  Emerging from an opaque mist at seven hundred feet, she drew a concerned breath and turned to her navigator. “We should be in visual range by now, Freddy. But I don’t see it.”

  Having crawled from the cramped quarters of the fuselage into the flight cabin, Freddy also searched the expanse of steely water below.

  Since they’d turned eastward somewhere near Truk Island, he had tried to take a star fix, but to no avail. After several unsuccessful attempts to penetrate the cloud cover at thirteen thousand feet, he’d been reduced to dead reckoning in darkness to establish a heading. At first light they’d broken through the clouds for a few minutes and he’d been able to determine a sun line with the sextant. Yet now the tiny Pacific island where they were supposed to land was not to be found.