The Long Way Home (Revised Ed)

by Ed Dover

  “I guess we’re going to have to get underneath this stuff to get any kind of visual landfall,” Ford remarked. “We’d better start down. I don’t much relish the idea of missing the island and having to backtrack while our fuel reserve gets used up.”

  Swede Rothe eased back on the throttles and increased the mixture toward full rich as they began a slow descent, feeling their way toward the bottom of the cloud deck. Soon they were breaking in and out of ragged cloud formations. The ocean below appeared grey and foam-flecked. Intermittent rain created sudden bursts of sound against the hull as they went lower still.

  “That’s far enough, Swede.” Ford called out, s they reached a mere 300 feet above the waves. “Level off here. It looks like visibility is improving up ahead.”

  Now clear of the cloud bases, they could see the extent of the storm they had been flying through. All around them to the north, east, and south, the grey roiling scud protruded from higher layers extending out of sight above them. Ahead, to the west, they could see brighter areas interspersed with rain shafts. Visibility beneath the scud appeared to be good – about 20 to 30 miles, Ford estimated. Good, he thought, if we’re anywhere near on course, we should make the Ceylon landfall without any problem.

  In the right seat, Johnny Mack stretched and yawned. It had been a long, tiring night. Soon they would land and he could look forward to a decent breakfast and a few hours rest. He rubbed his eyes to clear his vision, stretched again and scanned the brightening horizon for signs of a landfall. The sea was silvery grey against the early morning light. Then he saw it: in the water dead ahead, a small dark spot at first and then it kept getting larger. Hmm, he mused to himself, that can’t be land. It’s too small. Whales, maybe? Or a small boat, he questioned himself as he watched the spot grow.

  “Hey, Skipper,” Mack remarked idly, “what do you suppose that is, there, dead ahead. A whale, maybe?”

  Bob Ford glanced ahead to where Mack was pointing. The dark object had grown longer. A foamy wave surged up ahead of it. All at once it’s identity became clear.

  “Submarine!” Ford shouted. “But I can’t see any ID marks.”

  “Is it Japanese?”

  “Hell, we’ll soon find out! At this range we can’t turn sharp enough. We’re going to fly right over it!”

  As the long, thin hull emerged from the water, the conning tower became visible. Painted on the side, clearly visible, was the Rising Sun flag of the Imperial Japanese Navy. In just seconds they could see human figures running forward toward a deck gun.

  “Hey, they’re aiming that thing at us!” Mack shouted.

  “Swede!” Ford yelled to the engineer. “Full rich, full power, max climb! Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  As the engines turned up to full power, Ford hauled back on the yoke and sought maximum climb rate from the Clipper. If they could get above the cloud base again, the cloud cover might shield them from the gun crew. As the Clipper roared past the submarine, Mack could see the sub crew swing the deck gun around. Come on, baby, he implored the Boeing, come on! Come on! Climb, you sweetheart, climb!

  Holding his best rate-of-climb speed, Ford aimed for the nearest low scud. Though it seemed like an eternity, in a few seconds they were penetrating the bottom of the clouds. Soon they were once again surrounded by the wet, grey, impenetrable blanket. Just as they went back on instruments, a bright flash illuminated the clouds below them. The sub had fired the deck gun. They all tensed for the expected impact. Nothing happened. They were still climbing.

  “Phew!” Ford exhaled. “That was downright unfriendly. Swede, reset power for level cruise. I think we’re okay now.”

  “Right,” Rothe acknowledged, as he pulled the throttles back. He left the mixtures at full rich. This was no time to risk backfiring and possible loss of power that would force them below the clouds.

  In about ten minutes Ford felt safe to descend below the cloud bases again. By now, he thought, we should be out of range of that deck gun. “I think we can let down again, Swede. We should be far enough past that sub to be out of range of their guns. And I still don’t want to miss that island. Our reserves are low enough as it is without having to muck about trying to get back on course if we miss it.”

  “God!” Johnny Mack exclaimed. “If only we’d had a torpedo, or a bomb, we could have really blown that sucker out of the water.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess they were as surprised as we were,” Ford added. “But the best we can do now is to report it to the British command at Trincomalee. Maybe they can send out patrols to this area. If we give them a good enough fix on it they should be able to spot it. Hey, Rod,” he added, turning to Rod Brown at the navigator’s table, “how close a fix can we get on that intercept?”

  Brown consulted his makeshift navigation chart. They had been flying a fairly straight compass course ever since the western end of Sumatra the evening before. Banking on the winds aloft averaging out, considering the length of their flight thus far, he figured an intercept location that he hoped would fall well within the search capabilities of the British patrol squadrons.

  “Here, Skipper,” he brought his worksheet to Ford. “This fix ought to do it.”

  Ford glanced at the chart and the notation. “8 degrees, 40 minutes north, 83 degrees, 30 minutes east.” Ford observed the coordinates. “That puts them pretty close in to their coastal shipping lanes. I’ll bet the British High Command will be glad to get this information.”

  “Hey, land ho!” Johnny Mack exclaimed.

  Ahead, in the narrow corridor between the sea and the lower cloud level, there appeared a brighter horizon with a dark, long shoreline just above it. All eyes strained forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of some prominent terrain or landmark that they could identify from the atlas.

  “Drop down to 500 feet,” Ford ordered. “Let’s take that shoreline head on. We need to figure which way to turn when we cross over the beach.”

  “I’m pretty sure we should head north along that coast, Bob,” Brown advised. “Even if we’re past Trincomalee, we’d find out real soon by running up against the Indian coast right quick.”

  “Okay. We’ll bear right and start looking for that harbor.”

  Brown’s navigation turned out to be reasonably close. Within about 45 minutes after the encounter with the submarine, they spotted the harbor at Trincomalee. Fifteen minutes later the Clipper was cutting its bright foam-flecked landing swath along the seaplane channel. A British tender came out from the dock and helped them secure the Clipper to a seaplane buoy. This time, it seemed, word of their progress had, indeed, been relayed along the line. The greeting from the tender pilot was friendly and familiar.

  “Good morning, mates,” the tender pilot called out. “We’ve been expecting you. It’s Captain Ford, is it not?”

  “Yes,” Ford answered as he came out the main cabin hatch and stood on the sea wing. “I guess our Dutch friends got word to you about us.”

  “Got the word through our diplomatic code office. Not much detail, but they said you’d be a big one. And, blimey, they were right! What sort of bird is this anyway?” The British ground staff were familiar with the Short ‘Empire’ S-23 flying boats, the same size as the Sikorsky S-42, but they had seen nothing like the big Boeing.

  Ford proceeded to explain about NC18602 and the circumstances of their journey. When he had finished, the rest of the crew came out and, except for Johnny Mack and Jocko Parrish, they boarded the tender for the ride to shore. Mack and Parrish stayed aboard the Clipper as a security watch.

  “We’ve got some information that your Air Wing Commander might be interested in,” Ford explained. “Can you take us to him right away?”

  “Certainly, Captain,” the pilot answered. “In fact he’s just as anxious to see you. We have orders to escort you directly to his office.”

  When Ford was ushered into the presence of the Wing Commander, he felt as if he was meeting Sir Harry again. Except for the fact that this officer spor
ted a luxuriant red moustache, the stance and demeanor reminded him of his last meeting with a British Colonial official.

  “Captain Ford,” the Commander extended his hand. “Good to see you. You had a smooth flight, I trust?”

  Ford shook the extended hand. “Smooth enough, considering the weather we ran into. But we did come across something I think you will be interested in.”

  “Oh, yes? And what would that be, Captain?”

  “Just about an hour before landing we were down around 300 feet to get below the cloud base and we ran smack across the top of a Japanese submarine as it was surfacing. My navigator got a fairly good fix at the time and we think you ought to check it out. Here is the position we estimated for the contact.” He reached into his pocket and brought out the small sheet of paper with the coordinates written on it.

  The Wing Commander smiled slightly as he took the paper from Ford’s hand. “Japanese submarine in our local waters?” he mused, almost to himself. “Highly unlikely, I should think. We’ve maintained constant patrols around the island and well into the Bay of Bengal. Haven’t had any sighting of such activity. Are you sure it was a submarine and not one of our local fishing boats?”

  “As sure as we could be from 300 feet. Even spotted them unlimbering their deck gun for a shot at us. But we managed to climb back into the cloud cover before they could get a good bead on us.”

  The Commander seemed reluctant to accept Ford’s report of the encounter. “Identification of vessels on the surface is a highly specialized skill, Captain. If there were enemy submarines in the area I’m sure our boys would know about it. Is it possible that what you saw was a local fishing boat? Some of them have been armed with small caliber guns as protection against hostile vessels. Perhaps they did not recognize you as a friendly craft. That would explain why they fired at you.”

  The officer’s reluctance to accept the report as accurate annoyed Ford. This ‘Colonel Blimp’ is an idiot, Ford thought, you’d think he’d be happy to have this information. Oh, well, it’s his war, not mine. “Well, sir,” he sighed, “you can believe what you like. I and my crew know what we saw. Right now I’m too tired to argue about it. You’re welcome to use it or not as you see fit. As for me, I would just like to get myself and my crew billeted down for some rest. We’ve still a long way to go and we have to see about refueling our ship. By the way, can we get aviation grade 100 octane here? We had to run on 90 octane auto gas most of the way from Surabaya and I’m not sure that has done our engines any good.”

  With the change of subject, the Commander became more amenable. “Why, yes, I believe we can accommodate you in that regard. I’ll have the order cut right away and you can arrange for the refueling to begin this afternoon.”

  “One other thing, if I may, Commander,” Ford added, “is there any chance we can pick up some navigation charts? We’ve been doing a lot of makeshift flight planning ever since we left Noumea and it would be helpful if we could get charts that would allow us to plot our course more accurately.”

  “I would recommend that you contact the Command Headquarters at Colombo. They would be the best source for charts. If you wish, I can arrange for a car and driver. It’s about a three or four hour drive to the other side of the island.”

  Ford mulled over this information. He was dead tired from lack of sleep, but he knew the importance of accurate navigation. He decided quickly. “Yes, the car and driver sound fine. When can we go?”

  “This afternoon if you wish.”

  “Good. I’ll bring my Second Officer, Rod Brown, with me. First Officer Johnny Mack will have to remain on board the ship – Company security policy – and if you could find billeting for the rest of the crew...”

  “Of course, Captain,” the officer assured him. “Everything will be taken care of. I’ll send the car and driver over to pick you up at the BOQ

  [8] at 1400 hours. And I’ll send a dispatch ahead to alert them that you are coming.”

  With refueling and billeting arranged for, Ford and the rest of the crew were escorted to the RAF transient bachelor quarters. Most of them sought out their beds immediately; but Ford and Rod Brown had no chance to get much rest. Promptly at 2 P.M. the car and driver arrived to take them to Colombo.

  CHAPTER XII

  A SPECIAL INVITATION

  The sun was setting as the Jeep entered the Command Headquarters compound at Colombo, at that time the capital of Ceylon, a province of Britain’s Indian Empire. After the war it would become a separate dominion, and renamed Sri Lanka. After confirming their identity with the sentry, they were directed to the RAF Section where Ford and Brown obtained the necessary navigation charts for the flight legs to Africa. As they were getting ready for the long drive back to Trincomalee they were approached by a liaison officer from the Commander’s office.

  “Captain Ford,” the young lieutenant explained, “I have been directed to relay to you an invitation to supper at the Commander’s residence. They have been looking forward to meeting you ever since getting word of your flight from Surabaya.”

  “Oh,” Ford demurred, “that’s very generous, but I’m sure we’re not very presentable in our present condition. We’ve had very little sleep and we’ve been living in these clothes ‘round the clock.”

  “No problem, sir,” the lieutenant explained. “The dinner party is not until 2100 hours. We can put you up in the BOQ for a few hours sleep and arrange to have your uniforms cleaned and pressed in time for you to attend. They are quite eager to meet you.”

  The young officer’s logic was hard to refute. “I suppose we can’t refuse such a persuasive invitation,” Ford agreed. “By the way, who is our host?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say at this time, sir, but you will be properly introduced when we escort you to the Commander’s residence.”

  Well, Ford thought to himself, that seems to be unnecessarily mysterious, but I guess they have their reasons. “Rod,” he turned to his Second Officer, “it seems we have an invitation we can’t refuse. And I can tell you, the offer of that BOQ bunk for a few hours sleep sounds mighty good right now.”

  “Sounds good to me, too, Skipper,” Brown answered.

  The Lieutenant directed them to the BOQ where they were each assigned a small room. An orderly took their uniforms. After a brief but welcome bath, each of them turned in for as much sleep as they could get before the dinner party. They had been sleeping less than three hours when the orderly returned with their freshly cleaned and pressed uniforms. He informed them that their driver was waiting to take them to the Commander’s residence.

  When they arrived at the Commander’s quarters they were ushered into a large entry hall. Several orderlies were standing just inside the door. At the center of the entry stood a very stately, formally dressed woman. She smiled cordially and extended her hand as Ford and Brown walked in. The sight took them by surprise. After many days of dealing with drab, uniformed men, the appearance of this attractive, fashionably dressed lady was somewhat of a shock.

  “Captain Ford,” she greeted them, “so good of you to accept our invitation. We have been looking forward to meeting you.”

  Ford shook her extended hand and nodded slightly. “Thank you, ma’am for the invitation. But you have me at a disadvantage. I’m afraid we’ve not had the pleasure of meeting before.”

  “Forgive me, Captain,” the woman explained, “but I thought the lieutenant had informed you,” and she shot an inquisitive glance at the officer who had brought them in. “I am Lady Wavell. My husband is General Archibald Percival Wavell, Commander in Chief of the China-Burma-India theater of operations.

  [9] Unfortunately, he has been called away on pressing war matters, but he has asked me to represent him as host for this evening.”

  “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Wavell,” Ford responded in his best ‘Company PR’ manner. “And this is my Second Officer, Rod Brown.”

  “Mr. Brown,” Lady Wavell extended her hand again. “Very hap
py to meet you.” The two shook hands. “Now we are almost ready to go in to dinner,” she continued, “but I would like to ask a favor of you.”

  “Anything at all,” Ford responded.

  “Ever since we received word of your flight, my son has been eager to meet you. Your flying Clipper is perhaps more famous than you realize. And the thought of you taking it around the world has created quite a stir of interest. Would it be too much to ask if you could meet him for just a few minutes before we dine? It’s quite a bit past his normal bedtime, but we promised to allow him to stay up if you would see him.”

  “It would be our pleasure, ma’am.”

  With Lady Wavell leading the way, Ford, Brown, and one of the orderlies proceeded toward the rear of the residence where they entered a small bedroom. Seated on the bed was a young boy who could not have been more than five or six years old. Lady Wavell sat down next to him and put her arm around his shoulder.

  “Look, my dear,” she said, “here are the Clipper pilots come to see you. Now what do you think of that?”

  The boy looked up wide-eyed at the two men. Ford approached, smiling, and knelt down in front of him. “Hello there, young man,” he said, extending his hand. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  The child hesitated a moment.

  “Shake hands, dear,” Lady Wavell prompted him. “We must mind our manners.”

  The boy took Ford’s outstretched hand and seemed to relax a bit. “Are you really flying around the world?” he asked.

  “Yes, we are, but we still have a long way to go.”

  “I wish I could fly ‘round the world,” he responded with more enthusiasm, “it must be ever so much fun.”