by Ed Dover
“How does it look for a sheltered landing area?” Ford asked.
“This old map doesn’t have much detail, but it looks as though the main Darwin Harbor is fairly well sheltered. Just keep following the coast. It will bear around toward the south and then the harbor should be just there on the west side of that small coastal peninsula area.”
Following his navigator’s directions, Ford soon picked up the coastline and started a gradual swing toward the west. In a few minutes they were approaching the small port. As they let down, Ford noted that only one large freighter was tied up in the harbor. Following his usually cautious approach, he descended to 500 feet and traversed the length of the area twice. Flags flying on the freighter’s mast gave him some indication of the wind direction. Finally, after eleven hours and eleven minutes, NC18602 touched down on the welcome waters of Port Darwin Harbor. There was no suitable floating dock, so they tied up at the first convenient mooring buoy they came to. As they shut down the engines and made the flying boat secure, a small boat from the harbormaster’s dock came out to greet them.
Bob Ford stepped out onto the sea wing as the small boat approached. “Ahoy,” he called, “Pan American Airways Clipper here. We’re out of Auckland bound for New York City. Can we get any 100 octane aviation gas?”
The harbormaster jockeyed the small boat alongside the sea wing. “Aye, Captain, but it’s all stored in the warehouse ashore. You’ll have to lighter it out here a bit at a time.”
“We’ll take it. How soon can we get a refueling boat out here?”
“As soon as we get back to shore and load up from the jerry cans,” the harbormaster replied. “Can we have some of your crew along to help with the loading?”
“Sure, okay,” Ford agreed. “I’ll send them along right away.”
Ford returned to the flight deck and assigned John Steers, Jocko Parrish, Rod Brown and Johnny Mack to return with the harbormaster to help load the gas. In a few minutes they were pulling up to the dock and they could see that the town was in a state of complete panic.
Soldiers were patrolling the streets, but there was no semblance of order to their movements. People were running everywhere, gathering belongings and piling them on old cars and trucks. Drunken soldiers and sailors were either fighting among themselves or lying passed out on the sidewalks. It was apparent that a lot of beer drinking was going on.
“What the hell is this all about?” Johnny Mack wondered aloud, as they stepped onto the dock and followed the harbormaster to the warehouse where the gasoline was stored.
“Bloody fools, if you ask me!” the harbormaster replied. “Just because the freighter brings in the first supplies of beer any of us has seen for the past six weeks, they all go off their rockers and tank up like cattle at a trough! Some army! It’s no wonder everyone’s running to get out of town. We’ve had one air raid already and there’s no telling if or when the Japs might take a notion to move onshore here. They sure wouldn’t get much of a fight out of these blokes!”
Just then something went flying toward Mack’s head. He just had time to make out some sort of shiny object before ducking. The object crashed on the ground and shattered into shards of glass. It was a beer bottle. Mack looked around warily, looking for his attacker. About twenty feet away a very drunk soldier stood, swaying and waving his arms, mouthing incoherent threats at the small group of Pan American crew members. Another soldier, apparently a sergeant, came up behind the bottle thrower and tapped him on the shoulder. As the man turned around, the sergeant let swing with a solid fist and the drunk went down like a log.
“’Ere now, mate,” the sergeant exclaimed as he landed the blow, “ya can’t go about tossin’ missiles at friendly folk like that! Just cool yer arse there for a bloody while!” Then, he tipped his helmet toward Mack and grinned. “Don’t mind ‘em, mate! They ain’t none of ‘em ‘ad much of a drop the past two weeks and they’re just blowin’ off a little steam right now! G’day to ya and keep yer guard up!” And with that he turned and marched off down the street.
Despite the sudden attack, Johnny Mack had to grin as he waved his thanks to the sergeant. This was sure a helluva way to run a war! he thought.
When they got to the warehouse they found that the gasoline was stored in hundreds of 5-gallon jerry cans. The harbormaster provided a small lorry and they loaded as many as they could and returned to the dock, where the fuel was transferred to the tanks on a refueling boat. When that load was on the boat, John Steers accompanied it back to the Clipper, while the other three returned to the warehouse to load the lorry again. When the refueling boat reached the Clipper, Steers and Swede Rothe began filling the outboard wing tanks.
All during the refueling operation, darkness fell, and the sky around the harbor was a constant shimmer of lightning as thunderstorms filled the night sky. When a cloudburst would move across the harbor, they had to stop and cover the gas tank inlets to prevent rain water from getting into the tanks. There was nothing they could do then but move down to the cabin and wait for the rain to stop. During one of these waiting periods John Steers looked up with a sudden smile on his face.
“Hell, no point wasting all that good rainwater!” he exclaimed as he jumped up and began to take off his clothes. “This’ll be the best shower we’ve had since leaving Auckland!” And with that he raced up the stairwell, out of the navigator’s cargo hatch and stood on top of the wing, letting the welcome and cooling rain wash over his body.
Swede Rothe had looked up, surprised and amused at the naked figure of his crewmate running topside to take advantage of the opportunity.
“Hell,” he said to himself aloud, “might as well do it right!” He stopped at the forward lavatory to pick up a small bar of soap before doffing his own clothes and following Steers topside.
“Hey, John!” Rothe called as he emerged from the hatch, “You forgot the soap. Might as well get a real bath while we’re at it.”
“Hey, good idea!”
Rothe started to lather himself while the downpour continued. The soft rainwater made for a good head of lather as he luxuriated in the unaccustomed pleasure of a cleansing shower. As soon as he had lathered enough he tossed the bar of soap to his partner. The bar fell at Steers’ feet. Just as he was about to pick it up the rain stopped. Steers hesitated and looked up.
“Uh-oh!” he called, “Can’t rinse off this way. I think I’ll pass on the soap.” And he laughed as he looked at Swede Rothe, covered and dripping with soap suds.
“Well, goddam! Now what am I supposed to do!” Swede exclaimed, frustrated by the sudden end of the downpour.
“Guess you’ll have to dive in and rinse off in the harbor. That storm’s pretty well over. No telling how long until another shower comes by.” Steers laughingly teased his crewmate.
“What! Jump into that open sewer? There’s enough crap and corruption in that bay water to give a guy a permanent case of mildew.”
“Well, it’s that or sit around and wait. But that ain’t getting the gas loaded. Better do something. Skipper wants us out of here by sun-up.”
With much swearing and gesturing, Rothe grudgingly went below and out onto the sea wing, where he hesitated; but finally jumped in to rinse off the soap. He climbed out sputtering and swearing. “What a stink. I just hope I don’t pick up any creeping crud.”
“Don’t worry, Swede,” Steers tried to assure him, “you’re too ornery to catch any bugs. Let’s get dried off and get back to work. That gas won’t pour itself into the tanks.”
With a couple of towels from the stewards’ locker, they dried off; Swede Rothe inspecting his limbs and torso for any sign of critters or crud that might have latched onto his skin during his rinse. Once they were dressed, they returned to the chore of hefting the gas hoses from the refueling boat over the wing and filling the outboard wing tanks.
Several trips were needed by all involved to deliver enough fuel to the Clipper to fill the wing tanks. Then they proceeded to fill the two sea wing
tanks. By the time they were finished it was 2 A.M.
“Christ! I’m glad that’s done,” Swede Rothe exclaimed as they passed the refueling hose back to the boat for return to shore. “I don’t know about you, but I’m bushed. Let’s get some shut-eye. That sunrise is only four hours away.”
They crawled into their bunks. Shortly the rest of the crew came back to the ship and also turned in for what little rest they could get. Tomorrow would be even more of a challenge. They would be approaching the war zone and, as confused as the situation was, there was no telling what surprises might be lying in wait.
Chief Flight Radio Officer Jack Poindexter takes radio direction bearings from the loop antenna mounted on the roof of the cabin.
CHAPTER IX
A VERY CLOSE CALL
By dawn of December 18th, the thunderstorms had dissipated, but the horizon around Port Darwin was still ringed by towering cumulus clouds. Bob Ford eyed them warily. He knew all too well that they would be the source of renewed thunderstorm weather once the heat of the rising sun began to reinforce the thermal forces that would set them off. He was anxious to take off as soon as possible, but there was one more detail that had to be dealt with before they could leave.
“Our proposed route is going to take us very close to the war action,” he explained to the harbormaster, as they prepared to cast off from the buoy. “I don’t want any unpleasant surprises. Is there any way we can identify ourselves to Allied forces as we approach Surabaya?”
“We’ve received some limited procedures from the British and Dutch forces operating up there. I guess it would be okay to pass that along. They have set up some daily challenge and response code words and some identification turns for aircraft approaching the base. I can give you a copy of the pattern. The code words change from day to day and sometimes from hour to hour. About what time do you estimate your arrival at Surabaya?”
Ford did a quick calculation in his head. “If we are off the water by 6 A.M., I figure it should be about 8 or 9 hours to Surabaya. Can’t put it much closer, as we don’t have any winds aloft data. We’re pretty much doing everything on dead reckoning and hoping for the best.”
The harbormaster consulted the thick sheaf of papers attached to his clipboard. “It looks as though, for that time slot, they’re using a two-word challenge and response procedure. You can do it either by light gun signal, or radio if you want to take a chance on breaking radio silence. They will challenge with the code word B-E-A-M and your response should be H-O-R-N. Got that?”
Ford jotted the two words on the back of an envelope he found in his jacket pocket. “Yeah, roger on that. Thanks. Let’s hope it’s good for a friendly welcome. And thanks for all your help.”
“Oh, and one other thing,” the harbormaster added, “I can contact the American Consulate here in Darwin. They should be able to radio the Royal Dutch Air Force base at Surabaya and let them know you are coming.”
“That would be a good idea. We can use all the help we can get from here on out. Well... thanks again and I guess we’d better move on out now.”
“Glad to have been of service. Frankly, I wouldn’t relish being in your shoes. Just be careful and get that big machine back home safe and sound.”
The two shook hands. The harbormaster motored back to the dock as Ford stepped back aboard the Boeing. In a few minutes the four engines were roaring again. NC18602 lifted off Port Darwin Harbor just as the sun came up.
With the sun behind them, forward visibility was reasonably good as they stayed below the cumulus bases. Both Ford and First Officer Johnny Mack wanted to keep some sort of landfall in sight as they proceeded into this unknown territory. The Australian coastline soon disappeared into the haze of the tropical morning. Some two and a half hours later they were concentrating their vision forward to seek out the first glimpse of the Indonesian archipelago. But Johnny Mack’s mind was taking him back to Hawaii, as he wondered – as he had been wondering ever since the attack on Pearl Harbor – had the Japs invaded Oahu? Had the raid hit the Waikiki area? Questions raced through his mind every day, but there were no answers; only the frustration of not being able to do anything about it except follow the course of action set before them. How long before they would get back – indeed, if they ever did get back?
“Landfall ahead!” Ford’s call interrupted Mack’s reverie. “Let’s check it against that old atlas and see if we can get a positive fix on our position.”
“Looks like a pretty long coastline,” Mack remarked. “We could be anywhere along that shore. Does the atlas show any identifying landmarks?”
Rod Brown came forward from the navigator’s table with the thick atlas in hand. “There really isn’t that much to go on, but if we’re where I think we ought to be, we should have the island of Timor dead ahead. If you can see the south end of it, there ought to be a small island off there, but if it looks like we have the northern end, there are several even smaller islands. Can you make out anything like that?”
All eyes strained ahead through the maritime haze as the ghostly shoreline came into sharper relief. They scanned the horizon ahead from south to north and back again.
“No breaks that I can see,” Mack said. “That shoreline seems to extend as far north and south as we can see. The best I make out, we’re somewhere pretty close to the middle of the island.”
“In that case,” Ford concluded, “let’s hold a course straight ahead and cut across to the north side of the chain. Surabaya is on the north side of the island of Java and I’d rather approach it from the over water direction if possible.”
As they crossed the shoreline Ford descended to about 4,000 feet. From here, west-northwest bound, he wanted to be low enough to stay below the cloud bases and identify the numerous islands, as they moved along the archipelago, but high enough to make visual contact with the next island before losing sight of the previous one. Soon they had crossed the island of Timor and cut across to the north side of Flores. As soon as they had cleared the north shore, he descended further, maintaining a course parallel to and about a mile offshore of each island as they checked their progress against the atlas. At 4:30 Greenwich time they passed over the island of Bali.
At the Royal Dutch Naval Air Station at Surabaya, the Commandant, Colonel Koenrad, sat at his desk in the squadron operations room. He was reviewing the day’s activities. Japanese air raids had been an almost daily occurrence. The damages were relatively light, but the constant harassment had put everyone into a state of tense alertness. His young fighter pilots were a tough lot and spoiling for a fight. They had managed to shoot down a couple of the Japanese bombers, but were still eager for more action.
Koenrad contemplated the sheet of paper on the desk in front of him. It was the day’s assignment for patrol flights along the coast. By now the afternoon group would be patrolling their assigned routes. If they sighted enemy aircraft, they would radio in for additional fighters to be dispatched. But the ground based radio had been troublesome. Sometimes it would not work at all and the patrol pilots would be forced to return to the field to alert the other pilots with visual signals. Today, however, the radio seemed to be working. Koenrad could hear the pilots’ conversations as they checked in on their scheduled contacts.
“COBRA, THIS IS A FOR ALBERT. CHECKPOINT ZULU NUL. OVER.”
“A FOR ALBERT, THIS IS COBRA, ROGER.”
The shorthand phraseology from the fighter called ‘A for Albert’ indicated that the pilot was over checkpoint Zulu – a small promontory on the north shore about 75 miles east of Surabaya – and that there were no sightings of enemy aircraft. For the time being it was a quiet afternoon.
By this time John Steers was taking his turn in the left seat. As they continued along the Bali coast, he could see numerous thatched-roofed huts jammed together, as they passed several small villages. It all looks so idyllic and peaceful, he mused to himself; hard to believe there’s a war going on down there. He looked along the cloud bases to where they merge
d at the horizon with the higher terrain inland. Then, with the ingrained habit of his pilot training, he shifted his gaze to the instrument panel, monitoring the engine and navigational instruments for any signs of deviation from their established readings. There were none. Once again he scanned the horizon forward and to starboard. Only the towering cumulus and some scattered rain showers ringed their position. He moved his gaze back again toward the shoreline. Then he saw it. Only a speck at first, and then a rapidly growing dark shape.
“Uh-oh!” he muttered aloud.
“What?” Johnny Mack in the right seat caught Steers’ exclamation.
“Eleven o’clock, closing fast. Looks like a fighter plane.”
“Friend or foe?”
“Can’t tell from here, but he’s sure coming on like a bat out of hell. What do we do?”
Mack turned in his seat and called to Bob Ford who was conferring with Swede Rothe at the engineer’s station. “Skipper, better get up here quick! Looks like we’ve got company!”
Bob Ford moved quickly forward, motioning Steers to vacate the left seat. “Steady as she goes, Johnny. No fancy maneuvers, Where and how many?”
“Eleven o’clock, maybe three miles and closing fast. Looks like just one.”
“Keep on course, no turns, no changes of altitude. Get the light gun ready. If he’s friendly he may flash us that recognition code.”
At the Surabaya airbase, Colonel Koenrad was just about to leave the operations office when the stillness was shattered by a call on the radio.
“COBRA, THIS IS A FOR ALBERT. SINGLE BOGEY AT ELEVEN, ANGELS FOUR, WESTBOUND. AM PROCEEDING TO INTERCEPT, STAND BY!”
“A FOR ALBERT, COBRA HERE. ROGER BOGEY. WILL YOU NEED BACKUP?”
“CAN’T SAY AS YET. HANG ON...”
A long moment of silence followed as all hands in the operations room waited to hear more.
“COBRA, A FOR ALBERT. SHE’S A BIG ONE, BOYS! SOME KIND OF FLYING BOAT. BETTER COME UP AND HAVE A LOOK-SEE!”
