The Long Way Home (Revised Ed)

by Ed Dover

  Down below, most of the passengers had long since bedded down for the night. Some lay anxiously wakeful in their bunks, bracing for each sudden bump or lurch as the turbulent ride continued. Others, more experienced in such situations, slept comfortably, if not altogether soundly. The curtains closing off the bunks swayed with every small motion of the aircraft. The long passageway was dimly illuminated by a series of night lights. The entire aspect of the lower main deck was that of an abandoned ship. Not one soul was in sight throughout the length of the compartments. Assistant Flight Steward Verne Edwards sat on a small seat in the galley section, nursing a cup of coffee. He was reading a magazine but kept an alert ear for the sound of the call buzzer that would mean that one of his charges needed assistance. Barney Sawicki was taking his turn in the bunk and another two hours would pass before they would trade places.

  21 Degrees, 30 minutes North, 157 Degrees West. Noon Hawaii time. NC18606 had now been airborne for somewhat more than 21 hours. The cold fronts that had plagued her progress were now well to the east. Dawn, five hours earlier, had revealed a bright blue sky punctuated by brilliant white patches of small cumulus, typical of the trade wind pattern that signaled the approach to the Hawaiian Islands. With the passage into better weather, Ford had climbed back to a more comfortable cruising altitude of 6,000 feet. Rod Brown, taking his turn as navigator, was shooting a sun line from his perch in the navigator’s dome.

  Oscar Hendrickson, at the radio desk, was transmitting the latest position report to the C.A.A. station in Honolulu. When that task was done he flipped off the transmitter switch and stretched. It had been a long night and morning. He’d be glad to get to the Moana Hotel and relax on the beach for a while.

  Soon they would be within range of the terminal voice control channel. Then the pilots would take over communications directly with ATC and the Pan American flight watch operator at Pearl City. Hendrickson switched one of the receivers to the commercial broadcast band and tuned in KGMB – the Honolulu clear channel station. The signal came in loud and clear just as the announcer was in the middle of a news broadcast.

  “...no progress in bridging the gulf between the two countries with respect to their respective positions in the Far East. Furthermore, Secretary of State, Cordell Hull, indicated that Japan had not as yet responded to President Roosevelt’s inquiry as to Tokyo’s intentions in Indo-China. It has been Japan’s contention that the transfer of Imperial forces to Indo-China was only for the purpose of maintaining law and order. According to Saigon sources, Japan had pledged not to send any additional troops, nor to use its present position there as a jumping-off point for attacks on Thailand or the Burma Road...”

  What bullshit! Hendrickson thought. Just some more liar’s poker talk. Can’t believe anything you hear from any of those jokers. Wouldn’t surprise me if the whole damn mess blew up in their faces.

  “Hey, Oscar, can you set up the voice channel now?” It was Tom White, standing behind Ford’s cockpit seat. “I think we should be within range now. I can just spot Koko Head coming up about five degrees off the port bow.”

  “Sure thing, Tom.” Hendrickson switched one of the receivers to the terminal control channel and then did the same with one of the transmitters. He listened for a moment to check that the frequency was clear and then pressed his microphone button.

  “PEARL CITY FLIGHT WATCH, PEARL CITY FLIGHT WATCH, THIS IS CLIPPER 18606. DO YOU READ? OVER.”

  “CLIPPER 18606, PEARL CITY, ROGER,LOUD AND CLEAR. GOOD MORNING TO YOU. OR SHOULD I SAY GOOD AFTERNOON... YOU BOYS ARE RUNNING A LITTLE LATE TODAY, AREN’T YOU?”

  “ROGER ON THAT, PEARL. JUST SOME LITTLE OLD FRONTS ALONG THE WAY AS USUAL. NOTHING BIG BUT JUST ENOUGH TO SLOW US DOWN SOME. STAND BY - SWITCHING TO COCKPIT CONTROL. THE NEXT VOICE YOU HEAR WILL BE THAT OF OUR ILLUSTRIOUS FIRST OFFICER, TOM WHITE.”

  Hendrickson gestured to White. “Loud and clear on 2870 kilocycles. You can take it on the cockpit console now.”

  White nodded an “Okay” to Hendrickson, then turned toward the cockpit where Bob Ford was once again in the left seat. John Steers, who had been in the right seat for the past three hours, stepped out onto the flight deck and White took his place.

  “Voice contact with Pearl, Skipper.” White remarked as he secured his seat belt.

  “Okay, get us cleared for approach. Do we have a landing direction yet?”

  “The last weather report showed the wind as 60 degrees at about 26 knots. Pretty breezy.”

  “Check with Pearl for a sweep of the west-to-east landing area in East Loch, just north of Ford Island. That ought to be about right if the wind holds.”

  As soon as ATC cleared them for approach and landing, Ford ordered Swede Rothe to throttle back the engines. The Boeing began a gradual descent. At 2,000 feet they leveled off again and held that altitude as they came around the eastern tip of Oahu. Soon the familiar outline of Diamond Head came into view. As they passed Waikiki, White glanced down at the beach. The gleaming white Moana Hotel and the bright pink Royal Hawaiian Hotel were the only large buildings on the beachfront. The beach appeared to be almost deserted. Looks like a nice day for a swim, White mused to himself.

  “Take her down to 1,000 feet for initial approach. Cowl flaps open, wing flaps 10 degrees, and let’s get a final wind check and confirmation on channel sweep from the tender.” Bob Ford’s voice cut through White’s thoughts.

  White repeated the instructions and proceeded to make the necessary control adjustments. Then he picked up his microphone.

  “PEARL, THIS IS CIPPER 06 – REQUEST FINAL WIND CHECK AND WE’D LIKE TO PLAN FOR LANDING WEST TO EAST IN EAST LOCH ON THE NORTH SIDE OF FORD ISLAND. REQUEST CHANNEL SWEEP AND CONFIRMATION FROM THE TENDER. OVER.”

  “CLIPPER 06 – ROGER. WIND NOW 050 DEGREES 15 GUSTING TO 25. GENERALLY LIGHT CHOP ON ALL CHANNELS. STAND BY – WE’LL GET THE TENDER OUT THERE MOMENTARILY.”

  It took a few minutes for the tender boat to make a sweep of the channel. Once it had been determined that the channel was clear of any floating debris and there was no surface traffic in the way, the flight watch operator radioed confirmation to the Clipper. By this time the Boeing was turning on its final approach leg over Ewa Beach.

  “Full flaps, trim tabs set for approach. Swede, I’ll take the throttles now for final,” Ford called to the engineer.

  Slowly the ship descended on the final approach leg. Passing over Waipio Peninsula they were down to 500 feet. As they came abeam of Ford Island, White glanced over to Battleship Row. The warships lined up there looked as though they were ready for a nautical parade. Standing out brightly against the dark blue waters of the harbor, they presented a formidable sight.

  As they passed over Middle Loch, Ford gently eased back on the yoke until the Boeing’s bow was about five degrees above the horizon. He eased the throttles back further. As the airspeed dropped to 80 knots, he trimmed to hold that speed. The ship descended more slowly now – 200 feet per minute... 100 feet per minute... 50 feet per minute.. feeling ever so gently for that moment of contact with the water.

  Suddenly the smooth descent was interrupted by a light jolt, followed by the rapid slap-slap of water under the hull. Ford pulled the four throttles back to idle and held the yoke all the way back. The Boeing’s tail dropped low to the surface as twin rooster-tails of spray catapulted rearward from the sea wings. The drag of the water quickly dissipated most of the forward landing speed. Ford let up on the yoke. The bow came down and the Boeing settled into its normal shallow draft attitude on the water.

  John Steers and John Parrish once again came forward and climbed down through the bow hatch where they would receive the mooring lines from the tender. It took just a few minutes to turn around and taxi back to the dock area where the tender secured the bow lines to a mooring buoy.

  “All controls to idle cutoff. All mag switches off, fuel pumps off, close fuel valves, main switch off, secure control gust locks.” Ford called out the final housekeeping chores. As the b
ig propellers wound down, the constant drone of the engines was replaced by silence and the occasional slap of water against the hull. They could hear the handling crew, outside, calling instructions to each other as they warped the now dormant craft alongside the dock and secured the gangway to the port sea wing. While the passengers were disembarking, the on duty crew members made final entries in their respective operating logs. With that duty finished, they left the aircraft and walked the short distance to the operations office where they finished up the necessary paperwork required by company procedures. Then they boarded the waiting crew limousine for the ride to Waikiki.

  As soon as he had checked into his room at the Moana, Jack Poindexter sought out the desk clerk in the lobby. “I’d like to send a telegram to the Mainland. Can you handle it here?”

  “Yes sir, we have a direct line to Western Union. Where do you want it to go?” the clerk replied as he handed Poindexter a pad of message forms.

  “To my wife in San Francisco. Just a short line.”

  Poindexter penciled in the short message on the pad: ‘ARRIVED HNL 1PM STOP ALL WELL STOP DEP FOR CANTON ISLAND 12/4 STOP MORE LATER STOP LOVE JACK’

  He filled in name, address, and phone number information and handed the pad back to the clerk. The clerk silently counted the words and made a short entry in the service box. “That’ll be two dollars and fifty cents, Mr. Poindexter.”

  Poindexter pulled out his wallet and handed over one of the larger bills. When the clerk handed him his change he looked at the now depleted wallet. Hmm, he thought, can’t send too many of those at this rate. Better see if I can pick up at least one extra shirt before we leave for Canton.

  With the message taken care of, Poindexter turned and walked down the main entrance steps to Kalakaua Avenue. He knew that the Honolulu bus ran right past the hotel and that it could take him to Liberty House in just a few minutes. Shouldn’t cost too much for just one shirt, he thought, better do it now.

  By this time several of the crew, including Tom White, Oscar Hendrickson, John Steers, Jim Henricksen, and Rod Brown, had changed into swim trunks, grabbed towels from their rooms, and were soaking up the sunshine on the beach. Members of other layover crews joined them and soon they had a vigorous volleyball game going.

  Among those members was John Mack, who had missed leaving with Ford on the original departure from San Francisco. He had taken the “Honolulu Shuttle” flight the next day and was already in Honolulu when Ford and his crew arrived. It was arranged that Mack would take Tom White’s place with Ford for the journey south to New Zealand, scheduled for the next day, and White would return with the shuttle crew to San Francisco.

  Meanwhile, Bob Ford had also changed into beach wear, not to play volleyball but to go surfing. A few months earlier he had talked himself into buying a surfboard from the hotel manager. Now, during each layover in Honolulu, he was determined to master that Hawaiian sport. He had the desk clerk open the flight crew luggage storage room where the surfboard was stored. In a few minutes he was lying prone on the big plywood board and paddling out to the surf line where several other surfers sat, waiting to catch that one ‘just right’ swell that would give them a speedy and exhilarating ride to the beach.

  Those crew members who had not opted for either volleyball or surfing, or just lying in the sun, soon congregated in the lobby near the bar. In short order the inevitable poker game started. It was mostly nickel, dime, quarter stuff, but it was surprising how fast some of the pots built up. With help from members of other layover crews, the limit of seven players was reached quickly. Later, as the game continued into the evening, some players dropped out and their seats were promptly taken by other crew members who had strolled by to observe the action.

  “Okay, boys, it’s five-card draw, jokers wild, jacks or better to open. Ante up!” Swede Rothe called as he took his turn at the dealer’s choice game, now well under way at the big circular table on the Diamond Head portico overlooking the Banyan Court. With an unlit cigar clamped firmly in his teeth and his hands flying as he dealt the cards around the table, he looked like a river boat gambler plying his trade.

  “I’ll open for a quarter.” Verne Edwards called out the first challenge for the hand.

  “Call.” John Parrish tossed his quarter into the pot.

  Barney Sawicki slowly fanned the five cards inside his cupped palm “Hell, these mothers ain’t worth a damn!” he said, disgustedly. “I’ll sit this one out!” He slapped his cards face-down on the table and sat back to watch the action.

  Seven hundred miles northwest of Oahu, Admiral Nagumo’s task force proceeded at reduced speed through a winter storm that stirred the North Pacific. While the storm had forced them to slow to a more cautious pace, the cloud cover was a welcome sight: it would insure protection against early detection by any American aerial patrols that might stray into the area. And the strict radio silence imposed upon the fleet made detection by that means impossible.

  NC18602 docked at Pan Am’s Pearl City base in Pearl Harbor

  CHAPTER IV

  TO CANTON AND FIJI

  Pearl City Base, December 4, 1941

  Bob Ford stood at the briefing counter in the operations office and studied the meteorological chart just handed to him by the dispatcher. The serpentine lines of the pressure patterns and frontal weather locations drawn on the chart told him a story that he had seen before on this part of the South Pacific run.

  “What do you make of this, John?” Ford asked as he slid the synoptic chart in front of First Officer John Mack, who was standing next to him at the counter. Not that he needed Mack’s advice on how to interpret the map; he was simply interested to see if his First Officer’s interpretation of the weather information coincided sufficiently with his own so that they would be of one mind when it came to the critical flight planning decisions necessary for a safe flight.

  Mack stared at the chart for a long moment. “Well, Skipper, it looks like more of the same stuff we’ve usually run into on this run before. That pattern of upper-level westerlies extending along the Equator has a pretty steep gradient. The prevailing trades and south-easterlies are just about as strong. Looks to me like the Intertropical Front is going to be up and running like Gangbusters all along that line in a few hours. We just might be in for a bit of a wet, rough ride.”

  “Nothing we can’t handle though, right?”

  “Yeah, right... piece o’ cake! Just thank the Lord for little favors... No icing to worry about!” Mack grinned at his Captain.

  “Okay then. Let’s go earn a living!”

  Another Boeing – NC18602, the Pacific Clipper – had arrived at Pearl City the previous day on the direct San Francisco Honolulu Shuttle flight. This was the same flying boat that John Mack had been assigned to after having missed the initial departure with Ford. Now he was joining Ford and the rest of his crew on NC18602 for the flight south.

  In anticipation of an early departure, a full load of gas, mail bags, and other cargo had been loaded aboard during the night. The handful of passengers continuing south had boarded about a half hour ago. Barney Sawicki and Verne Edwards had also gone on board at that time to see to their seating arrangements. Now, as the weather briefing concluded, Ford, Mack and the rest of the crew left the dispatch office, walked the short distance to the dock and went aboard.

  Everyone settled quickly into the routines of their respective duties. Pre-flight checks were completed and in a few minutes NC18602 had come alive with the familiar rumble and vibration of the four Wright engines. At precisely 8 A.M. Ford gave the command. All lines were cast off, Ford eased the throttles forward and the big Boeing moved out to the takeoff channel.

  “Local surface winds haven’t come up yet,” Ford observed. “I think we’d better plan on a takeoff to the south. Without a good headwind component for takeoff, at this gross weight our rate of climb would be pretty marginal for clearing those sugar cane fields to the north and east. Let’s take it straight out the harbor entrance
. That way we can hold a lower altitude until the airspeed builds up.”

  With that takeoff criteria as a guide, Mack made contact with Pan American flight watch and requested the appropriate clearance. By the time final mag checks had been completed, the clearance had been relayed from ATC. Once again Ford called to Swede Rothe for follow-through on the throttles. As the engines revved up to full takeoff power, the B-314 surged forward, spray flying. Once airborne, Ford continued due south, holding a couple of hundred feet of altitude until the airspeed built up sufficiently to allow for a standard rate of climb to their initial cruising altitude of 8,000 feet above sea-level. About an hour after takeoff, Barney Sawicki came up to the flight deck and went forward to the cockpit.

  “Hi, Barn,” Ford greeted him. “How’s everything going downstairs?”

  “All normal and routine, Skipper. Just thought you’d like to know we have some kind of VIP on board this trip.”

  “Oh, yeah? How ‘Very Important’?”

  “Sir Harry Luke, the British Governor-General of Fiji. According to this morning’s edition of the Honolulu Advertiser, he’s been attending some top-level meetings with the Navy brass. My guess is it has something to do with all this stuff going on with the Japs. He says this is his first ride in a Clipper. He wanted me to ask you if it would be okay for him to come up and see the flight deck.”

  “I guess we have to be diplomatic with the diplomats...” Ford replied. “Sure, show him on up. We’ll give him the deluxe dollar tour.”

  “Okay, he’s on his way.” Barney turned and went down the stairs.

  Within a couple of minutes another figure emerged from the stairwell: Sir Harry Luke, K.C.M.G., D. Litt, Governor-General of Fiji and Commissioner for the Western Pacific.

  Ford stepped down from his seat. “Johnny, take the left seat for a while. I’ll show our guest around.” Then he turned toward the visitor and extended his hand. “Your Excellency, good morning. My steward informs me this is your first flight on a Clipper.”