Mystery in Trib 2

by Douglas Anderson

  “Hey, don’t blame me,” I gave back. “You’re the one who found this rock. If it hadn’t been for you I would have headed straight for that nice soft patch of tundra over there and been catching forty winks by now.”

  “Why don’t we move? We’ve lots of time and I could sure do with a good siesta.”

  “Say no more,” Hagen said, gathered up his belongings and headed for a choice spot just away from the bald crest of the ridge.

  I just wasn’t going to let it go. “Hey, hey! That was supposed to be my spot. I had it staked out. Move over.”

  “Tough luck. I don’t see a claim marker on the northeast corner so I reckon you’re too late.” Hagen laid down his shotgun, flopped down, arranged his small daypack as a pillow and stretched out with his hands clasped behind his head.

  “Boy, that feels much better.” he wriggled. “ Comfortable, reeeeally comfortable.”

  “Bloody claim jumper,” I grumbled, as I looked for a nearby smooth place to bed down. “Hope you find there’s a big rock sticking up under your butt.”

  He let out a long exaggerated snore, refusing to be baited anymore. I selected a smooth place free from rocks and settled down to rest on the yielding surface. Like Hagen, I used my daypack as a pillow and kept my rifle close by—Bears.

  * * * *

  Eyes closed and in silence, I mulled over our conversation about the wartime. How different everything must have been back then. We had both been too young to understand what war was but inevitably it had shaped our lives. His perhaps so much more than my own. I guess, even with Hagen’s graphic description, I could hardly visualize how bad it must have been. We had been so young, yet it was amazing how much we were able to recollect.

  The warmth of the sun penetrated my body. Drowsily, I let my mind wander over these childhood memories. I was little more than a toddler standing with my Mom and my Granddad on the lawn in front of the large, red brick farmhouse. We watched a seemingly never-ending stream of bombers pass from right to left. They were at low altitude, maybe four or five hundred feet and I could remember the details: four engines, dark gray-green color, menacing gun barrels bristling from turrets. The out-of-sync drone of hundreds of piston engines filling the air.

  To me, as a child, they were just exciting, noisy airplanes, the first I ever remember seeing. To others, depending on your alliances, they could have been friend or foe. I remember my grandfather, usually undemonstrative, waving his battered trilby hat in the air and cheering them on.

  So many warplanes, it just boggled the mind. Just imagine, hundreds of planes, sometimes a thousand or more launched in a single day or night raid. Eight or ten thousand crew members all told. Ten percent, sometimes as high as 15 percent of the planes were lost in one sortie. The trepidation that must have been in the minds of those aboard the aircraft. They understood the odds of getting through unscathed were pretty slim. The terror that had to be present in the German population when they knew the planes approached in such numbers.

  Imagine the thousands of planes that passed through Alaska en route to Russia in support of the eastern front. Huh. An unlikely alliance, it seemed in retrospect.

  All that metal precisely shaped, bolted and riveted together piece by piece. Thousands of sturdy piston engines propelling the aircraft. Planes that were downed by anti-aircraft fire, shot out of the sky by fighters, ran out of fuel, crashed due to bad weather or survived intact only to be assigned to the scrap heap. Very few examples remained. Even fewer remained in a flyable condition. Imagine if that same superhuman effort had been applied to truly peaceful ends. Where would the world be now?

  Yes, we could recall a surprising amount about the war but it must have been much more traumatic for those older than ourselves, who, through military duty or otherwise, were actively involved. They wouldn’t just recall the events—they probably still had terrible nightmares about it.

  Not much could beat a patch of soft tundra turf for comfort. Warm sun soaked into my body while the light breeze hissed through the shrubbery. Bees visiting flowers nearby made a loud droning sound. An out-of-sync sound like multiple aircraft engines. Bees buzzing? No. It was all those bombers flying overhead? … I was drowsy. My thoughts and reality became confused and I was drifting off to sleep.

  Hagen (left) and Doug on the ridge overlooking the Ladue Valley.

  Chapter Four

  Gore Field Montana 1944

  One by one the five twin-engine aircraft peeled onto downwind, crosswind and final leg. Landing gear lowered as the aircraft approached the threshold of the long runway. The out-of-synchronization drone of their engines shattered the calm of the Montana countryside.

  Gore Field, U.S. Army Air Force Base, Great Falls, Montana was not exactly a hive of activity this Saturday afternoon in the autumn of 1944. Headquarters of the Seventh Ferry Group and staging point for aircraft being ferried, under the lend-lease agreement, to Russia, the base enjoyed quiet periods broken by occasional days of feverish activity.

  So far this had been one of the quiet days. Hawks hovered over the sun-scorched grass expanse beside the runway, occasionally stooping to capture a small rodent. Grasshoppers chirruped happily in concert. For the most part, sounds had been the sounds of nature.

  This peace was shattered abruptly by the arriving Douglas A20’s. Pausing briefly at the end of the runway, with engines idling, they awaited a pilot jeep, then taxied slowly to the static parking area. Ten engines clattered to a standstill and relative silence fell over the base. The grasshoppers resumed their chirruping.

  Gore Field was equipped with two Douglas A20G’s, four A20H’s and four Bell P-39 Air-Cobras. All were used for training of air crew. Training was divided into several different categories and disciplines: Pilot and navigator training fell in one group, gunnery was a second and bombing was a third. The base’s A20’s were used for all these roles at one time or another. There were a couple of two seat, single engine Piper Cub L-4H’s used as spotter planes to gauge and photograph the accuracy and effectiveness of practice bombing out at the range one hundred miles to the east.

  No one learned to fly at Gore Field but they were taught how to crew the A20’s and P-39’s. Some pilots were upgrading from single-engine to multi-engine aircraft.

  Gore had the task of training ferry pilots for the Seventh Ferry Group in addition to pilots destined for combat. Many women joined and were trained to ferry aircraft and supplies to wherever was necessary. The women were not allowed to fly armed or in combat, though many were very capable pilots.

  The average stay for crews in training at Gore was less than six weeks so there was a brisk rotation of staff through the barracks and housing units which occupied an area to the north of the base.

  Planes for lend-lease to Russia tended to trickle in a few at a time. When enough aircraft were marshaled, the mechanics would prep them for the long flight to Russia.2 The P-39’s were equipped with under-the-wing, long-range fuel pods. When the time came, a flight of 18 or 20 would set out for the long ferry flight to Russia. It was usual for the fighter aircraft to follow a mother ship, a C47 cargo aircraft equipped with superior navigation equipment, hauling along supplies and spare parts.

  Eight emergency runways had been constructed along the route and radio homing beacons aided navigation. Despite everyone’s best efforts, about 10 percent of the planes had to drop out for one reason or another before reaching their destination in the U.S.S.R. Several had disappeared and had yet to be located in the wild expanse of sparsely populated northwest Canada, the Territory of Alaska and the eastern reaches of Russia.

  An A20H had, only a month earlier, disappeared shortly after leaving Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory. Radio communications indicated it was diverting to one of the emergency runways but it never made it. The plane and crew were still missing. There had been quite a flap about that one because it was carrying a “special” cargo. Rumor had it that it was a shipment of gold destined for China. A back-hander for the use of air bases in
that country. No one would confirm it, however.

  Presently 26 Bell P39 Air-Cobras were parked in neat rows east of the runway. More were scheduled to arrive from Santa Monica this very evening, so it would not be too long before they were all ferried out.

  The Bell Air-Cobra was the only aircraft in the U.S. arsenal with the engine mid-mounted just to the rear of the pilot. The drive shaft passed through a tunnel between the pilots’ legs. It was perky looking aircraft with tricycle landing gear. It wasn’t much use as a fighter. It was well armored and thus too heavy and underpowered. Some pilots even described it as “a real dog.” Nevertheless, it had proven to be very good in a ground attack role since its low profile nose gave the pilot excellent forward visibility. The Soviets had taken a liking to it and had nicknamed it Cobrushka, little cobra. Two of the C47 mother ships were also parked and were being loaded with spare parts and essential supplies.

  Further down the field, counting the new arrivals, were 18 new, twin engine A20H’s. Dark green, sturdy, mean looking aircraft with dorsal and ventral gun barbettes and six guns mounted in the nose. They were similar to the A20G but with more powerful Wright R-2600-29 engines and improved armaments. They were also destined for Russia and would depart when the necessary ferry crews were assembled.

  Ferry aircraft overflew western Canada and Alaska. Since the previous year, flights had been able to follow the route of the new highway, dubbed the Al-Can. Regular stops were at Edmonton, Whitehorse, and Fairbanks or Nome but many alternate fields were available near the new highway in case of an emergency. From Fairbanks or Nome the planes were flown, either by U.S. or by Soviet pilots, to various airfields in eastern Russia. The ferry crews were shuttled back in a C47.

  The lend-lease agreement with the U.S.S.R. had resulted in almost six thousand fighters and bombers passing through Gore, but the westward flow had slowed a little in recent months as some aircraft were shipped east to England.

  The tide of the war in Europe was turning at long last. Since the successful June invasion, the push across France was gaining momentum. On the eastern front the Russians were also making headway. Despite putting up fierce resistance, the Axis forces were slowly being squeezed back into their Fatherland.

  Duane Roberts had paused in his jeep to allow the five new arrivals to cross the apron ahead of him. When they were clear, he crunched the gears and floored the gas pedal. He had just visited with personnel at the flight line, maintenance shop and the main hangar.

  Accelerating across the wide expanse from the hangar he couldn’t help but notice what a pleasant afternoon it was. The weather was hot and a heat haze shimmered over the long asphalt runway.

  “Oh well, another day, another dollar,” he muttered to himself, glancing at his wristwatch. Five fifteen. It was close to his normal finishing time and hunger gnawed at his stomach. I wonder what’s for dinner tonight, he thought.

  These quiet days tended to drag a bit and he wished he could see more action. He had been at Gore for only four months and was already finding the duty a trifle mundane.

  On the other hand, he had to admit a kind of complacency had already set in. His wife had settled well into the married quarters and was happily taking care of their three-year-old son. Originally “flat-landers” from Wichita, Kansas, they had begun to appreciate some of the recreational opportunities offered by mountainous Montana. There was always fresh air, spectacular scenery and somewhere nice to picnic. The nearby Missouri River and its tributaries offered great fishing, a sport he enjoyed immensely in his off time. Deep down, he knew he would find it awfully inconvenient to be posted to some other place.

  Roberts had been on active duty in England and had been injured by flak a year ago while leading a night raid over northern Germany. It had left him with partially impaired sight in his left eye and a left knee that was still giving him trouble. Damn, he loved to fly but was, for all intents and purposes, medically grounded.

  Desperate for proficient personnel, however, the Army Air Force had promoted him to Commander of the seventh Ferry Group at Gore Field, a duty which included managing the base’s role in the lend-lease program and overseeing the training of flight crews. Spent a lot of time flying a desk but he had sneaked into the air occasionally on one pretext or another, in one of the Piper Cubs.

  He hauled up, with a screech of rubber, into his parking place outside the office building. Just as his administration assistant Jenkins hurried out of the door. Jenkins gave a relaxed salute.

  “There you are, sir. I was just on my way to find you. General Crandall called and wants to speak to you right away.”

  “Okay, Jenkins.” Roberts vaulted, a little awkwardly, from the jeep. “Give me three minutes to visit the john and then call him. Wonder what he wants?”

  “He didn’t say but he sounded pretty hot and said it was imperative you call as soon as possible.” Jenkins held the door open for his CO. “Three minutes it is, sir.” He glanced at his wristwatch.

  Ten minutes later Roberts was almost more mystified. The conversation with General Crandall had been brief and to the point. Roberts was to have one of the new A20H’s prepared to fly ASAP to Murmansk in the U.S.S.R. with some freight. “Freight?” he had questioned.

  “Yes, freight. No one is saying much about it, Even I was told to mind my own business. I can tell you most of it is made to fit the bomb racks. That’s why it has to be an A20H.

  “Roberts couldn’t help it. “All the same, sir, if it’s freight, that’s a job for a C47 not an A20.”

  Crandall’s reply had been crusty and to the point. “Let’s follow orders, shall we. Just get a plane ready. The shipment should roll in there by truck within three or four hours by my reckoning. It’s coming with an escort but you had better throw some of our own people around it. This is to be treated as high priority. Pick your best flight crew. I want you to personally stay on top of this one and make sure it gets out of there promptly. Understand?”

  What could he say? “Yes, sir. We’ll get on it right away. Should be able to get a plane out of here at first light, sir.”

  “Do it, Commander.” There was a brief pause. “Oh, by the way, better have the guns manned.” The A20H, primarily an attack aircraft was armed with a total of ten 50 caliber machine guns.

  “You want it armed, sir?” Roberts was really surprised. “We don’t normally arm the lend-lease aircraft and anyway, it’s over friendly territory all the way.”

  “Well, just in case you haven’t heard Roberts,” a touch of icy sarcasm edged Crandall’s voice. “There’s a war in the Pacific as well. I happen to think there is a good chance the Nips are going to try to disrupt our supply lines one of these days. Huh. Nothing official you understand, but they’re getting pretty desperate. Caught us flat-footed once at Pearl and again on the Aleutian Islands. I won’t have anyone taking chances on my turf. Make sure that plane is equipped and manned to defend itself.”

  Well that was it. What kind of freight needed an A20H bomb bay? Some new kind of bomb? Maybe that was it. Some more new technology to pass on to the Ruskies along with all the other assistance they were giving them.

  There were all sorts of mysterious “black briefcases” being sealed and shipped to the U.S.S.R. as diplomatic baggage along with the lend-lease planes.3 God only knew what information was being given away. Sure, the Soviets were fighting the Germans but Roberts, pessimistic along with many others, felt the generosity of the USA toward the Communists might just turn round some day and bite them in the rear end. Collaboration could go a bit too far. “Huh, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Yeah. Just for now.

  He thought for a few minutes, twisting a pencil between his fingers. Then, coming to a decision, he shouted to the outer office, “Jenkins, Jenkins! Round up Major Perkins and tell him to get over here pronto. Oh, and buzz my wife and tell her I won’t be home till late. Could be ten or eleven o’clock. And arrange for a couple of sandwiches to be brought over here if you would.” His stomach was really compl
aining now.

  Perkins had also completed a tour of duty in England. He was now one of the best A20 instructors on the base and he had already flown several times to Russia. He would be a good man for this and it would give him a break from the usual training routine. Next he called the maintenance and flight line and gave instructions to ready and arm one of the new A20H’s. “Yes, damn it, I want it armed.”

  When Perkins arrived at his office twenty minutes later Roberts briefed him about the mission and set him about choosing the rest of the crew. At seven o’clock he pulled together the four and reviewed their flight plan. Three flight legs: Gore to Edmonton, Edmonton to Whitehorse, Whitehorse to Nome. Russian pilots would then take the plane to Providenija. Damn, he would have to coordinate this special flight with the Canadians. He told the crew outright what he knew, little as it was, and em-phasized the importance the general had placed on the mission. They were equally surprised the plane had to be armed.

  At eight fifteen the shipment rolled through the gate. No indication of where they had come from.

  As the general had said, there was an escort. Two jeeps with two armed soldiers apiece accompanied a three-ton covered truck. One soldier was in the cab with the driver and two more rode in the back of the truck. It had to be pretty important to warrant such close attention. The whole squad arrayed themselves around the truck and aircraft and watched while the freight transfer was carried out.

  Despite the impressive escort, the appearance of the “freight” was a disappointment. There was nothing very glamorous or revealing about it. Just four nondescript, blue painted, cylindrical containers which, as the general had said they would, fit into the internal bomb racks of the A20H. Two on each side of the split bomb bay arrangement. Safety locking pins were installed on the racks to prevent any inadvertent release of the “cargo.”

  Four well-constructed, small but rather heavy boxes, also blue painted, were manhandled through the upper hatch and secured to the diminutive deck space between the bomb racks. The total load was 2,200 pounds, well within the A20’s internal capacity of 4,000 pounds.