by Mark Vance
“Silence the bell! Shut off fuel to engine number three! Feather the prop!” Tyree ordered, pressuring the rudder against the yaw.
“Holy Jesus!” Wilson exclaimed over the intercom, peering outside at the right wing. “Lieutenant, we have major damage to engine number three and the whole leading edge of the right wing!” he shouted.
“Roger! Standby!” Tyree shouted, struggling to bring the damaged machine under control.
“Fire warning on engine number three!” Johnson shouted, as the fire warning light glowed steady red.
“Fire the extinguisher!” Tyree ordered as engine number four suddenly began vibrating also and he pulled its throttle to idle. “Tell whoever can hear us we’re declaring an emergency and letting down out of the clouds! Combat stations everybody! Report all ground contacts!” Tyree ordered, as the gunners moved swiftly to man the Liberator’s firing stations and search below them for visual clues.
Easing the stricken machine into a shallow descent, Tyree shouted, “Stephen, can you tell if we’re over land or water?” well aware that ditching in the sea was suddenly a real possibility if they had been blown off course while circling and no airfield suddenly became available.
“I can’t say for certain, James. We’ve got to be somewhere near the border with Scotland. Hard to say after circling. If we are off course, the high terrain along the coast should still be South of our position. I estimate the R.A.F. Base at Stornoway to be within twenty minutes of us to the Northwest!” Coronado responded.
“Okay, I’m going to spiral down slowly in case we need to stay away from that high terrain along the coastline. Pilot to crew, report all ground contacts and standby for possible ditching instructions!” he ordered, watching the altimeter wind down through 4,000 feet.
“Fire warning still illuminated on engine number three!” Cole Johnson exclaimed.
“Engineer to pilot …” Wilson interrupted. “The fire in the number three engine area is out of control and spreading to the right wing!”
“Roger!” Tyree shouted. “Pilot to crew, we have an uncontrollable fire on the right side. Evacuate the aircraft as soon as we’re down! Eldon! Get those life rafts ready just in case!” he ordered.
“Holy Jesus!” Cole Johnson exclaimed as he stared at the raging inferno spreading across the right wing. “What about the chutes? The chutes?” he asked desperately. Pausing before answering, James Tyree thought for a moment how surreal everything had suddenly become. “This can’t be happening! We’re heading home!” he shouted as he strained to control the crippled machine.
“No chutes! We could be over water! We’d never survive a parachute jump into the water!” he declared, easing the nose down further, desperately searching for ground contact.
15:02 Hrs.
“Navigator to pilot, I can’t pin it down that close without the D.F. The coastal high terrain should definitely be South of us, but not by much. Suggest you widen the turn radius to the North to make sure we clear all the high terrain in the descent!” Coronado exclaimed.
“Roger! We’ll let down slowly until we break out of the clouds and then if we’ve been blown offshore, we’ll turn back toward the coast if we have to!” Tyree shouted. “If we have to ditch, I want us as close to the shore as possible! Get me a heading for the nearest suitable airfield when you can!”
“Roger!” Coronado exclaimed, as he watched roaring flames inundate the right wing.
Back in the stricken bomber’s tail-turret, Eric Irving was absolutely speechless, staring at the thick black smoke trailing off into oblivion behind the aircraft. He knew that the heat source for that smoke had to be tremendous. The perception he’d carried for so many months now about never seeing home again was reaching a climax as he watched the huge black cloud continue to intensify. As he waited at his combat station, he searched desperately through the clouds for visual contact with the ground but to no avail.
15:06 Hrs.
With the altimeter winding down through 1500 feet and the crippled bomber still descending inside heavy clouds, a second powerful concussion suddenly rocked the doomed aircraft. “Son of a bitch!” Tyree shouted as the blast nearly knocked him out of his seat and he fought to stay at the controls of the rapidly disintegrating machine. Behind him, intense scorching heat filled the bomb-bay, as it erupted in flames, and he heard his men screaming in agony.
Groping for the rudder pedals, he found them frozen in position as he tried frantically to free them. In one terrifying instant, he realized that the bomber actually had no rudders left for the pedals he was pushing to control. Before he could express his insight to Cole Johnson, the doomed airplane began pitching up and down violently, shuddering incessantly in its final spasms of life. “Holy Jesus!” Johnson gasped, hanging on as tightly as he could inside the wildly gyrating machine.
“Everybody, stand by for crash landing!” Tyree shouted, manhandling the controls and feeling no effect for his efforts.
Inside the tail-turret, Eric Irving watched huge pieces of both vertical stabilizers separate from the airplane, eliminating all doubt in his mind that he was going to die. Staring helplessly as the pieces drifted off behind him, he felt the ride inside the crippled bomber immediately become an uncontrolled death spiral as he and the others inside braced for the inevitable crash.
15:14 Hrs.
With massive portions of the aircraft now separating from the air frame, and the bomber auguring completely out of control, men screamed for help from the on-board fire raging in the bomb-bay. An intense, fiery, inferno engulfed the right wing and the bomb-bay, as thick, toxic smoke spread throughout the ship and filled the cockpit. Still inside heavy clouds, Tyree sought the ground with all his being as fire tore through them and his men screamed for life itself.
“Power! Power! Power!” Cole Johnson shouted as the descent rate started to steepen out of control. “That’s it! Stay with it! Stay with it!” Johnson encouraged, as the bomber continued oscillating up and down, and thick, toxic smoke continued filling the cockpit. “James! James!” Johnson shouted as they broke out of the clouds and to their horror suddenly found themselves face to face with rising, rugged terrain. “Power! Power! Power!” he shouted again frantically, fire-walling the remaining engines, as the nose of the bomber pitched up momentarily.
15:17 Hrs.
The reprieve from the maddening plunge was short lived. Inside 5095, death screams filled the air as intense fire seared through the men, and the badly disintegrating bomber augured wildly out of control. With the ground rushing up to meet it and it’s flight controls mangled or missing, 5095 was hemorrhaging to death in an uncontrollable, sweeping descent. Tyree and Johnson were fighting with all their combined strength to shallow the descent, knowing they were about to impact the rugged terrain, even as toxic smoke filled their lungs and blinded them.
“James! Jesus, James!” Johnson shouted as both of them pulled savagely on the controls. Aside from the suddenness of it, the whole thing still seemed illusory to Tyree, like a nightmare he would wake up from any minute and be grateful it was over as had been the case so many times before. But this was no nightmare. He had actually believed he would keep his promise to Jennie and return to spend the rest of his life with her. He had been betrayed now and was going to die instead. He would never see Jennie’s face again. Dear God! He’d broken his promise to Jennie!
Behind him at the radio-operator station, in his last moments of life, Jacob Stewart squeezed his lucky penny tightly and transmitted a final frantic distress call over the emergency frequency. His words were an impassioned plea for help that thanks to the Office of Strategic Services would never be heard by anyone.
15:23 Hrs.
Below in the village of Black Hameldon, England, several people watched in astonishment as the aircraft, whose engines they had heard orbiting overhead for some time, suddenly materialized out of the clouds on fire. The huge bomber was in a dramatic, fiery plunge to earth, in the final throws of absolute peril, seconds from
impact, as they all watched in horror.
15:24 Hrs.
With Tyree and Johnson tugging frantically at the controls, trying to shallow the maddening descent, their last hope of surviving the now imminent crash, 5095 suddenly rebelled again. The raging inferno encircling the right wing had finally burned completely through, as the wing abruptly separated and disintegrated. Within seconds, the hurtling, out of control machine plunged near vertically into rugged terrain in the Moors area of Central England. On impact, it shattered into tiny fragments, killing everyone aboard and sending a tremendous explosive shock wave rumbling across the English countryside.
On the flight back to Atlanta …
“Steve! Steve! Wake up! You’re having one of those nightmares again!” Kay insisted, shaking him aggressively to assure that he was fully awakened. “You were quite fitful and getting a bit vocal.”
“Oh … okay, thank you. Did I wake you up?” he asked.
“No. I’ve been awake the whole time, watching you. You really should try and go back to sleep after you calm down, if you can. You need it more than I do. Just try to think about something positive if at all possible.” Kay suggested, as Steve nodded in agreement, leaned once more against the airliner’s side window, and in less than a minute was fast asleep again.
June 13, 1945, 15:35 Hrs., Air Transport Command, U.S. Army Air Corps., Base Air Depot 2, Lancashire, England.
A thin smile began to form on Ed Hickey’s taut face as he glanced at his watch and envisioned the sequence of events that must surely have happened by now. No doubt, the explosive charges had left their mark and the airplane and its crew were both just a memory, another unsolved mystery of the sea, never to be seen or heard from again. “So much for that little problem.” he said, sporting a satisfied, wicked grin as he walked outside to the waiting truck. When he reached it, he climbed into the front seat for the long drive back to Stafford shire, England. He was anxious to forget the James Tyree Crew and return to his other O.S.S. duties.
June 25, 1945, 16:25 Hrs., Regional Headquarters, Office of Strategic Services, London, England.
“Okay, Nate, let’s hear it again one more time from the top.” Tom Sturnman coached. “How many actually knew about Hickey’s plan from the beginning?”
“Uh, well, like I said, sir, it was a last minute thing. We were just going to delay them in the beginning.” Nate Watson replied.
“We understand that, Nate, and we appreciate your coming in here and being so up front about all of it.” Sturnman continued.
“But we’ve got a real problem on our hands. I’m sure you’ve heard by now that the airplane came down in the Moors area of central England.”
“No, sir!” Watson gasped, staring at him in shocked disbelief.
“Well, now you know! Eighth Air Force recovery teams are crawling all over the wreckage right now as we speak.” Sturnman declared. “And you know what else they’re doing, Nate?”
“No, sir.”
“Accident investigation! Accident investigation, Nate! And how long do you think it will take them to figure out that the airplane exploded in-flight? Not long, I can assure you!” he taunted.
“Sir, I …”
“Silence!” Sturnman snapped, cutting him off immediately. “You see, Nate, we’ve got a hell of a mess on our hands, a hell of a mess, thanks to Hickey and the rest of you.”
“Sir …”
“One we’re going to have to clean up and somehow erase permanently!” Sturnman continued.
“How … how do we do that, sir?” Nate Watson asked meekly, still staring straight ahead, as Sturnman gradually walked around the room behind him.
“By tying up all the loose ends, Nate!” Sturnman replied, pulling out his Colt .45 automatic pistol and firing it into the back of Watson’s head at point-blank range.
July 19, 1945, 16:44 Hrs., St. Agathe D’Aliermont, Pas-De-Calais Area, Northern Coast of France.
As they settled in for another day of waiting outside the O.S.S. safe house, Tom Sturnman and Phil Osterhouse scanned the street for any sign of movement. Ten days of staking out the safe house with no sign of Ed Hickey had made Sturnman doubt his own instincts. He knew Hickey was hiding somewhere and had not attempted to contact the organization since June 12th. He also knew there were few places a loner like Hickey could go. He certainly had no friends to turn to or any other support within the O.S.S. In fact, Ed Hickey was more alone and isolated than any man Sturnman had ever known.
After waiting endless hours inside the two door sedan, Sturnman’s attention was suddenly drawn to a distant solitary figure at the bottom of the narrow street walking cautiously in their direction. The short, slightly built male was approaching discreetly, glancing nervously over his shoulder at regular intervals. “Hey, take a look!” Sturnman exclaimed, nudging Phil Osterhouse and nodding at the figure in the distance.
“Is that him?” Osterhouse asked curiously.
“Could be. He’s got Hickey’s build.”
“He sure seems nervous about something.”
“Wouldn’t you be?” Sturnman asked, checking his .45 automatic. “Let’s take him before he gets inside the safe house!” he ordered, opening the car door and stepping out into the street as Osterhouse followed. The moment they did, both men flinched instinctively as a high powered rifle erupted across the street and the concussion shook them forcefully. Recovering within moments, Sturnman saw a lone gunman hidden inside a doorway across the street firing intently at the man in the distance. Hit badly, the man fell to the street as the unrelenting gunman fired again. Without hesitating, Sturnman reacted to the attack, taking quick aim with his .45 automatic and emptying it into the gunman inside the doorway. The huge .45 slugs tore into the gunman mercilessly, snapping his head back and dropping him to the ground as Sturnman quickly reloaded the weapon. Eyeing the assassin’s target, Sturnman saw he had fallen face down in the street and was now twitching badly as his body reacted to the shock of being hit.
Sweeping the area with his .45, Sturnman shouted at Phil Osterhouse. “Finish him!” gesturing at the wounded gunman in the doorway as he eased toward the other man. When he reached him, he kneeled down and rolled him over. His instincts had been right! Sturnman was suddenly face to face with Ed Hickey.
“Ed! Ed! It’s me, Tom Sturnman!” he declared, grasping Hickey’s head and elevating it slightly.
“Tom? Tom? What are you doing here?” Hickey gasped, coughing up blood and wincing in pain.
“Looking for you. Who was shooting at you, Ed?” he asked bluntly, as he watched Hickey gasp for air through a massive chest wound.
“How … how bad am I hurt?” Hickey cried out.
“Just take it easy, Ed. Help is on the way.” Sturnman lied, flinching again as Osterhouse finished the lone gunman with a single pistol shot to the head. “Who was shooting at you, Ed?” he repeated.
Gasping, Hickey managed, “He was with the other man I shot here before. I’ve been followed for days.”
“Is that why you stayed away from the safe house?” Sturnman asked pointedly, as Hickey managed to nod. “What were you thinking about with that bomber crew, Ed? What made you do that?” he demanded, searching Hickey’s face for some kind of reaction, some sign of remorse. But there was none. Completely unemotional, Hickey just gasped, “the shipment. I was protecting the shipment.”
“You killed twenty-seven innocent Americans and one of our own agents.” Sturnman shot back accusingly, as his eyes bore into Hickey.
Ignoring the charge, Hickey sneered, “you and your damn Paris meeting! I did what you told me to do. How … how bad am I hurt? What about me? What about me, Tom?”
Removing his hand from under Hickey’s neck and standing back up, Sturnman stared at him in silence for a moment before answering. “Oh, you’re hurt pretty bad, Ed, but you’d probably make it if we got you to a good hospital right away. You’d probably make it, and we just can’t have that, Ed.”
“Tom?” Hickey exclaimed, reco
iling as Sturnman leveled the .45 automatic at his head. “Tom?” he screamed, as Sturnman released the safety.
On the flight back to Atlanta …
“Steve! Steve! You need to wake up! You were fidgeting badly again and having another nightmare. You probably should stay awake for the rest of the flight. We’re supposed to be landing in Atlanta in about twenty-five minutes.” Kay stated.
“Huh? Oh … okay.” he said sleepily, trying to clear his head from the physical and emotional trauma implanted in him by the transference process.
“Another really bad one, huh?” Kay asked tentatively.
“It was like I was actually there in 1945, experiencing everything that everyone at the time did mentally and physically. Every sensation I have is so unbelievably real!” he exclaimed.
“I think what might help lower the intensity of this kind of experience is to focus your mind on unconditional forgiveness, like Uncle Wohali suggested. It probably won’t completely dull all your sensations, but it should definitely reduce the magnitude of the overall experience and the frequency of the visions.” she stated.