The Long Way Home (Revised Ed)

by Ed Dover

  “Well, sometimes it’s fun but mostly it’s a lot of hard work. But I’m sure you’ll be a fine pilot when you grow up. Just remember when you start school to keep on studying hard and learn all you can. That’s the best way to get to do whatever you want. Even fly around the world.”

  “Can I see your aeroplane?”

  “Well, it’s over on the other side of the island at Trincomalee. I’m afraid there won’t be much time for that before we leave in the morning.”

  “And now it is really bedtime,” Lady Wavell interjected. “Would-be pilots must get their full ration of sleep, so off with you.”

  The boy looked up at Ford and they shook hands again. Then Lady Wavell kissed her son goodnight and turned him over to the ministrations of the nanny who had been waiting to one side. She led Ford and Brown back to the dining room.

  The ensuing meal amounted to a state dinner with the British VIP brass who were eager to meet and talk to the Pan American pilots.

  Despite his apparent celebrity status, Ford was hard put to hold up his end of the dinner conversation. The short nap he had been able to take earlier had not relieved the fatigue of the last few days. Several times during the course of the meal he felt himself being nudged by Rod Brown, having dozed off right in the middle of some polite dinner conversation. If Lady Wavell or any of the other guests noticed it, they were too courteous to mention it. In this way they managed to get through the evening. When it was over and the last thank-yous and handshakes were tendered, both of them were grateful for the opportunity to return to the BOQ for a longer rest. The return to Trincomalee was arranged for the next morning.

  The harbor at Trincomalee was calm as Bob Ford pushed the throttles forward for full power takeoff. The quiet of the Christmas Eve morning was shattered by the roar of the engines as NC18602 surged forward into the takeoff run. Their destination was Karachi. It took almost a minute to become airborne. They had loaded 4,000 gallons of aviation fuel the night before, but there was still some auto gas in the inboard main tanks. Both Ford and Swede Rothe counted on the enrichment from the newly loaded 100 octane to overcome the poor detonation qualities of the leftover auto gas. As soon as they reached a safe altitude, they went through the familiar ritual of leaning out the engines for best fuel consumption. Once again they experienced the intermittent backfiring of the previous flight.

  “We’ll probably have to put up with that until the fuel flow purges all of that 90 octane stuff out of the system,” Rothe reasoned. “We’d better monitor those cylinder head temps real close. They’re still too much on the high side for my taste.”

  “Okay, Swede,” Ford agreed. “Let’s hold 2,000 feet until the fuel load lightens a bit. Then we’ll see about a higher altitude.”

  Finally, trimmed for level flight and on course toward Karachi, they settled down into the usual routine of en route flying. They were about thirty minutes out and Ford was ready to go below for his customary cup of coffee when suddenly the aircraft was shaken by a loud explosion.

  “What the hell!” Johnny Mack exclaimed.

  The flying boat yawed right. Ford instinctively applied corrective rudder and aileron. As he did so he glanced out his side window toward the engines. Johnny Mack turned to inspect the engines on the starboard side. A wide, black swath of oil was streaming back from the Number Three engine.

  “Number Three’s lost oil pressure!” Swede Rothe called from the engineer’s station. “Cutting of fuel flow, feathering Three!”

  Mack watched as the big Hamilton propeller slowed, then stopped with the blades edgewise to the air stream. Then he switched off the magnetos for Number Three.

  “Jocko!” Ford called to John Parrish who was standing next to the engineer’s desk. “Get up to the dome and see if you can make out what’s happened to Number Three.”

  Parrish hurried through the hatch to the rear compartment and climbed the short ladder. Glancing out of the dome, he could see the wide swath of engine oil streaming back off the wing.

  “It looks like we’ve blown a jug,” Parrish reported. “It’s a real mess out there.”

  Ford swung the Clipper around in a 180-degree turn. “Well, that does it. We’ll have to return to Trincomalee.”

  “We’re going to get some use out of those spare parts we brought along,” Johnny Mack mused.

  Half an hour later they were circling back over the harbor at Trincomalee. As soon as they were secured to the seaplane dock and all engines shut down, Swede Rothe and Jocko Parrish climbed out on top of the wing and inspected the damaged engine.

  “We’ve blown number six cylinder on the Number Three engine,” Rothe reported to Ford. “Ten studs are broken. We’re going to have to draw those broken studs out before we can replace the cylinder from our spare parts. Better figure on at least two days to get the job done. Merry Christmas!”

  Ford half-smiled at Rothe’s wry humor. “Yeah, and a Happy New Year, too. Well, let’s get on it.”

  Rothe recruited Verne White, and the two Noumea mechanics, Bud Washer and Ralph Hitchcock to help with the repairs. Fortunately, White had brought his hand-held air drill with him from Auckland; but they did not have an air compressor or hose to hook it up to.

  “Do you think the Brits might have a portable compressor and hose we can borrow?” Parrish asked.

  “Why don’t you get on over to their hangar and check it out,” Rothe replied. “Meanwhile me and the boys will get the cowlings off and pull down the work doors.” The work doors were short hinged platforms that could extend from the engine mount, allowing mechanics to work on the engines while suspended over the water. There was one on each side of each engine and when extended, the mechanics could stand on them to begin the laborious process of repairs.

  A couple of hours later, Parrish returned from the British airbase. Luckily, they had the portable compressor and hose they needed. Very soon they were busy drawing the broken studs while Washer and Hitchcock prepared the spare cylinder head for installation.

  The job took longer than expected. By midnight they had drawn out only about half of the ten broken studs. “Hell, I’m bushed,” Rothe exclaimed. “Let’s knock off and get a little shut-eye. We can get on it again in the morning. This is one helluva lousy way to spend Christmas Eve.”

  With Jocko Parrish and Bob Henricksen assigned on-board security watch for the night, the rest of the crew went ashore. The RAF pilots invited them to a Christmas Eve party but they politely declined in favor of a good night’s sleep. Time enough for celebrations when they got the engine repaired.

  By noon the last of the broken studs were removed from the engine and a new cylinder installed. The ignition harness was repaired, fuel and oil lines checked and Number Three oil tank was replenished from a barrel of spare engine oil. When all was cleaned up and secured, Rothe approached Ford.

  “Well, Skipper,” he said, “that ought to do it. We can fly again whenever you’re ready.”

  “Good work, Swede,” Ford complimented his engineer, “but I think we’ll have to put off departure until tomorrow. We need to arrive at Karachi in daylight and as that leg appears to be only about nine hours, an early morning departure would be best. We need to top the tanks again and that will take some time. Besides, we might as well relax. After all, it is Christmas.”

  “Yeah, and what a helluva way to spend it!” Rothe responded.

  Leaving the mandatory two crew members on board as a security watch, Ford and the rest of the crew went ashore. For the rest of the evening and that night they tried to relax and rest. The RAF fighter pilots were throwing a big Christmas party at the officer’ mess and, for a while, they joined in the festivities.

  But for most of the Pan Am crew their thoughts were directed toward home and family. Especially Jack Poindexter. The other crew members’ families had expected them to be gone for the usual long flight duty associated with the run to New Zealand. But Poindexter and his family were caught totally unprepared for his sudden and extended absence. He
wondered if there was any way to send a message home, at least just to say that he was well and everything was okay. But inquiries through the RAF officers proved fruitless. Not even the British pilots could send messages home. And some of them had been away at Christmas each year for the past three years. Wartime security was simply too tight and strict. Messages home would have to wait for a more secure time and place.

  Thus they passed the time on Christmas Night: swapping stories with the RAF pilots, conjecturing on the course of the war and wondering when they would be home again. When they tired of the drinking and story swapping they retired to their quarters to rest up for the morning departure: another venture into the unknown; another day of flying where they had never flown before.

  B314 flight deck looking aft. Hatches on the left and right bulkheads led to passageways into the wing with access to each engine in flight. The door on rear bulkhead led to the aft cargo area and access to the navigator’s dome where celestial navigation by star sightings was performed.

  CHAPTER XIII

  TOURISTS IN A STRANGE LAND

  John Steers was taking his turn in the right seat. Four hours ago they had crossed the coast of India. From their altitude of 7,500 feet, Steers looked down at the unfamiliar landscape, trying to make a connection between major landmarks on the ground and the information on the newly-acquired flight charts that Ford had obtained at Colombo.

  They were passing over badly eroded open hill country interspersed with occasional patches of green terraces. Once, he sighted what appeared to be a beautiful castle. It gleamed white against the dull brown of the mountain top on which it was perched. But Steers could not find it on the map. It sat alone, in pristine isolation, with no village or town within miles. Hmm, he mused to himself, a prominent landmark like that ought to be marked on this chart, but damned if I can find it. Oh, well, it’s a good thing we have the coastline just off there to the west. That’s a good enough surface reference for a direct course to Karachi.

  Soon they passed over Bombay. By 4 P.M. they were landing in the harbor at Karachi. The nine and a half hour flight was one of the smoothest and least eventful legs thus far. Perhaps there would be time now to relax and shed the tensions of the past few days and look forward to an uneventful conclusion to their odyssey.

  There was one major chore, however, that had to be undertaken before they could be on their way. The engine taken on at Auckland had to be off-loaded. The Allied Command was building a forward airbase and the engine was to be added to the inventory of the new base. Once again the navigator’s hatch was opened. Very gingerly, the crane operator lowered the hook and cable into the opening. With Swede Rothe assisting, they raised the bulky cargo out of the cargo area and placed it on the dock. Well, Rothe thought to himself, this will relieve some of our load problems. Ought be able to take on more gas with that thing out of our hair.

  In addition to off-loading the engine, Ford reminded Verne White that he was to deplane at Karachi and accompany the engine and its spare parts to the new base where he would be in charge of setting up the new engine maintenance shop. Bud Washer and Ralph Hitchcock were to remain with Ford until they got to Bahrain, where they would deplane to take up a similar assignment there. All three would remain at their new duty stations for almost two months before being picked up by Pan Am Captain Masland, in another B-314, for their eventual return to the U.S.

  With the engine unloading completed and the security watch established for the evening, the rest of the crew went ashore and checked into the Carlton Hotel. The first thing that most of them did was to take advantage of the deep bathtubs. It felt good to soak away the sweat and grime. Steers lay back, closed his eyes and luxuriated in the unaccustomed pleasure of the full tub. When he had soaked enough, he reached down and pulled the drain plug. The water ran out all over the floor. “Oh, for Christ sake!” he muttered aloud. It seemed the builders had installed the tubs and then neglected to hook up any plumbing drains. Steers had to laugh as he tip-toed away from the flooded floor, toweled off, and got dressed.

  Bob Ford awoke early and returned to the dock where NC18602 lay moored. “What’s the word on refueling, Swede?”

  Swede and Jocko Parrish had spent the night on board in anticipation of an early morning start. “No problem there, Skipper, but there is something else that will need fixing before we can fly again.”

  Ford frowned, “Oh, and what might that be?”

  “Jocko and I were checking the engines earlier. During one of the routine prop checks on Number Three we hit what looks like a stuck propeller pitch control piston

  [10] We’ll have to change it.”

  “Damn!” Ford swore, “How long?”

  “At least a day. Depends on what we find when we open it up.”

  Ford sighed, “Well, get on it pronto. I’ll let the rest of the crew know. They can relax and get in some sight-seeing for the rest of the day.”

  Ford returned to the Carlton where the other crew members were finishing breakfast. “You can take it easy for today, boys,” he announced. “Swede says we need to change a prop control piston. Could be an all-day job. We’ll aim for an early departure tomorrow morning.”

  For their part, the rest of the crew seemed happy to have a short break from the demands of their harried flight schedule. It would be an opportunity to attend to some long overdue personal matters, such as laundering their clothes and catching up on sleep. For those so inclined, it was also a chance to explore a strange city which none of them had ever been to before and which they would probably never see again. John Steers, Jack Poindexter, Barney Sawicki, and Eugene Leach opted to take a leisurely stroll around the city. It soon became a first-hand lesson in cultural differences.

  The streets were crowded with people. Shopkeepers called to them as they passed and they were continually accosted by peddlers trying to sell them all sorts of overpriced goods. Everywhere they strolled there was a pervasive odor. After a while they decided it was the camel dung in the streets where the passing animals had deposited it and where it lay putrefying in the hot sun. Then there were the beggars. Hordes of ill-dressed, pitiful creatures surrounded them as they went; pawing at them and pleading for money. The women were most persistent; even those nursing babies and breast feeding them were reaching out to these strangers in hopes of getting a handout. But they had nothing to give. Their personal funds had been exhausted by now and they were all dependent on the meager funds remaining from the money Bob Ford had been able to glean from company funds at Auckland and the money he had obtained at Gladstone. All they could do was shrug and fend off the pawing hordes as best they could. After a couple of hours of this, they returned to the relative calm and quiet of the Carlton. The rest of the day and evening was spent playing cards, reading, or engaging in speculative bull sessions at the bar. Most of them turned in early, looking forward to an early departure for the next flight leg to Bahrain.

  The fuel tanks were topped off with 3,100 gallons of aviation fuel. In the early morning stillness of December 28th, NC18602 lifted off from Karachi harbor. Ford took up a westerly heading paralleling the coastline along the north shore of the Gulf of Oman. Soon they crossed the Strait of Hormuz and entered the Persian Gulf. A little over eight uneventful hours out of Karachi they landed at the Arabian port of Bahrain. Once secured at a seaplane dock, they emerged from the cabin into the hottest, most humid air any of them had experienced since leaving Auckland.

  “Phew!” Swede Rothe exclaimed, as the moist blanket of air hit him in the face. “Let’s gas up and get out of here. This place would sweat the cooties off a hound dog.”

  “Well, Swede,” Ford responded, “I’m all for that, but I guess we’re stuck till morning. We’re going to have to land on the Nile River when we get to Khartoum and I’d sure rather do it in daylight.”

  As soon as they could, they contacted the local commander to arrange for refueling. To their dismay, they learned that there was no 100 octane available and they would have to fall
back on the less desirable auto gas.

  “Here we go again!” Rothe exclaimed.

  “It’s either that or sit here for the duration,” Ford replied.

  “Yeah, I know. Well, we’ve nursed these mothers this far. I guess we can do it again as long as they’ll hold up. I’m sure not much for hanging around this Turkish bath weather any longer than we have to.”

  Fortunately, the flight from Karachi had used up only about half of their fuel capacity. They would only have to top off with the auto gas. The mixing of the two octanes might not be as harmful as the first time, when they had been forced to use an almost 100 percent supply of the 90 octane. Once again John Steers stayed on board to help Rothe with the refueling. The rest of the crew went ashore and settled in for the night. As promised, and as they had been notified earlier, the two flight mechanics from Noumea deplaned at Bahrain.

  When Bob Ford came out of the hotel the next morning he was surprised to find the streets running with water. That’s strange, he thought, I didn’t hear any rain last night or this morning. Wonder where all this water is coming from. After some local inquiry, it turned out that it was dew. The high humidity coupled with overnight cooling had served to condense so much moisture out of the air that the gutters ran with water as though there had been a heavy rainstorm. But he did not have much time to dwell on the phenomenon. Mostly he was concerned about the engines. Would this second load of auto gas raise more havoc than the first? How would they manage if other cylinders blew under the stress of the higher head temperatures? They would just have to chance it. Later, as he filed his flight plan with the British air controller, another problem arose.

  The British dispatcher looked at Ford and chose his words carefully. “Captain, I don’t know if you are aware of it, but there is a very strict prohibition against aircraft flying over the Arabian Peninsula. Your flight plan for a direct flight to Khartoum can not be approved as filed, as it would take you directly over Mecca. You will have to proceed north until you reach Kuwait before you can turn west. The Saudis are very sensitive to any incursions into air space overlying their sacred areas.”