The Long Way Home (Revised Ed)

by Ed Dover

  But the reprieve was only momentary. They barely had flying speed and were not climbing at all; just hovering a few feet off the surface and still headed toward the gorge.

  “Ninety one seconds,” Swede Rothe called from the engineer’s station. “That’s past max time for full power. Can we pull it back now?”

  “No way! Keep those throttles to the stops. We’re not out of this yet!”

  “Okay, but the cylinder head temps are over redline! We could blow at any time!”

  Ford did not reply, but thought to himself, Hell! We’ll either blow up or hit those rocks. Either way we’re dead. Might as well die trying. And he kept his hand hard against the throttles. Gingerly he tested the yoke, attempting to find a balance between pulling back too far and risking a stall and maintaining just enough nose-down attitude to build up the airspeed without settling back onto the river.

  At that moment they passed the rim of the gorge. The river dropped away into the rocky defile and the water turned to white foam as it crashed against the boulder-strewn bottom. Without the cushioning effect – the so-called ‘ground effect’ – of being only a few feet above the water surface, NC18602 also began to descend into the gorge. In seconds they were flying within the confines of a narrow canyon, still not too far above the surface. But the extra separation from the water surface did allow Ford to drop the bow a little more and gradually the airspeed began to pick up.

  “Eighty five knots.” Johnny Mack called out.

  Okay, Ford thought, that gives us about five knots to play with to get some climb out of this baby. Gently he exerted enough back pressure on the yoke to raise the nose and drop the airspeed to eighty knots.

  “Rate of climb ten feet a minute, up!” Mack exclaimed. “..twenty feet, up! ...fifty feet, up! We’re going to make it!”

  “We’re not out of the woods yet, Johnny,” Ford cautioned. “Look up ahead there.”

  Directly ahead the gorge took a curve to the right. They were still below the edge of the precipice and the rocky ledge loomed before them. “There seems to be room to make a shallow turn and follow the canyon.”

  “Yeah, as long as we don’t bank too far. We’re still marginal for a stall.”

  Ford watched the approaching curve in the gorge and mentally gauged the point at which to begin a gentle turn. As they reached that point he gently applied pressure to the wheel, turning it to the right, while, at the same time, feeding in a light pressure on the right rudder pedal. The wheel would not move. He increased pressure. The yoke would not budge. He could move it forward and back but he could not get it to turn. With no aileron movement and the slight amount of right rudder, the ship skidded left.

  “Now what the hell is wrong?” he exclaimed. “Hey, Swede, we’ve got no aileron control. The damn wheel wont budge! What gives?”

  Swede Rothe made a quick assessment: “The aileron cables must be jammed, Hang on! I’ll check it out.”

  He rose from his seat and went to the starboard hatch leading into the wing. He opened it, peered into the tunnel, and saw the problem immediately. Looking out along the catwalk tunnel, he could se that it had a tilt to it, only slight, but noticeable to his trained eye. Then he turned his attention to the aileron cable running through the channels in the wing. At a point where the cable went through a pulley it was clamped tightly between the groove of the pulley wheel and the pulley housing. Quickly he returned to his station.

  “Skipper, the aileron cables are jammed in their pulleys because the wing is flexing. We’re going to have to get up into cooler air before those pulleys will free up.”

  As Ford digested this news from Rothe he was, at the same time, trying to improvise some way to make the big ship follow the twists and turns of the gorge. After some experimentation he found he could use the rudder by itself to skid around the turns. Each time he applied right rudder the ship would skid left and the right wing would dip down. Conversely, it worked the same when he attempted left rudder. In this way they continued: airspeed just above stall, gaining about fifty feet per minute, following the curves of the gorge.

  Slowly the flying boat was able to gain enough height to put them above the surrounding terrain. Ford was eventually able to let up enough on the yoke to build up a little more airspeed. Finally they had a safe altitude and Ford called to Rothe to throttle back to normal cruise climb. The four engines had been held at full power for a full three minutes; far longer than the engineers at Wright had ever designed them for.

  “By God, I don’t want to try that again any time soon!” Rothe exclaimed to no one in particular.

  As the tension eased and NC18602 approached its normal cruising altitude, Ford relaxed a little. But he listened carefully to the engines. Except for the hammering of Number One, they all sounded good. Well, he thought, I guess they’re none the worse for wear. But that was too close!

  Satisfied that the engines had not suffered any damage from the extended time at full power, Ford called to Rod Brown for a compass heading to Natal. When the customary small slip of paper with the heading written on it was taped to the brow of the instrument panel, he turned the Clipper westward, heading toward the South Atlantic and what he hoped would be the final episode in this strange odyssey.

  Midnight: clear and smooth as NC18602 continued westward. They were half-way across the South Atlantic. Earlier they had been forced to take a northwesterly course to avoid several lines of thunderstorms that lay just off the African coast. Second Officer Rod Brown was now taking several star sightings to determine their position and make the necessary course correction to return to the direct track to Natal. As he took his readings and plotted them on the Mercator chart, he could see that winds aloft had pushed them much further north of their intended track. They would have to make a considerable heading change. He had better huddle with Parrish, he thought, to see what the Howgozit Curve

  [13] said about their fuel reserves.

  “Jocko, these fixes indicate strong southerly upper winds. We’re going to have to take a pretty hefty dog-leg cut at our compass heading to get back on track. I’d say we’re looking at least at an additional two to three hours added to our original flight time. What does the curve say about our fuel reserves?”

  Parrish studied the Howgozit line on the chart. Then he took his ruler and penciled in a tentative extension based on the new position plot. “Well, it’s going to be tight. If we slow down to a minimum long-range cruise, I reckon we can make Natal with about a two-hour reserve. That is if these upper winds don’t play any more tricks on us.”

  “Don’t count on it. All this damned wartime secrecy and radio silence is really lousing up our chances to get any decent weather information. I guess we’ll just have to go with the wind estimates I’ve worked up from these star fixes. I’d better let Ford know. He might want to review ditching procedures.”

  Below, in the main cabin, Bob Ford, Johnny Mack, Swede Rothe and Jack Poindexter were finishing up a late meal. As Verne Edwards cleared away the last of the empty dishes, they all relaxed and took a few moments for some after-dinner conversation.

  “That was one of the better meals I’ve had on this trip.” Swede Rothe complimented the steward. “How the hell do you guys manage that?”

  Ever since leaving Noumea, stewards Barney Sawicki and Verne Edwards had done a lot of creative shopping to keep the crew supplied with enough to eat. As their dollar funds ran low they had resorted to some very heavy haggling at the various marketplaces along the way. At Leopoldville they had coaxed and bargained with the cooks at the Pan American commissary until they had amassed a relatively nourishing store of groceries. “Hey,” Edwards demurred, “nothing to it if you’re born con-artists like we are!”

  Ford turned to Jack Poindexter and grinned. “How’s your shirt holding up, Jack? Think it’ll make it to New York?”

  Ever since his unexpected assignment out of Los Angeles, Jack Poindexter had dealt with the problem of his lack of preparation for such a long flight. Wi
th only the clothes on his back and the one extra shirt he had bought in Honolulu, he had faced the constant chore of keeping his clothes clean. Whenever possible, at each stopover point, the first thing he did was to find somewhere to wash his shirts and underwear. He had managed to have his uniform cleaned only once, during the layover at Trincomalee. By now he was really looking forward to the end of their journey and a chance to wear some decent street clothes. “It damn well better hang together ‘til then!” he answered. “I’m not scrubbing another shirt for the next hundred years!”

  They all laughed. For a few moments they savored the flavor of the just-finished meal.

  Johnny Mack broke the silence. “I’ll just be damned glad to get this over with and get back to ‘Frisco. I’m just curious about what they intend to do with this ship once we’re at LaGuardia.”

  “The best I can figure it,” Ford interjected, “they plan to turn all the Clippers over to the Navy. At least that was implied in the Plan A letter. I don’t know if the Navy has pilots checked out in them, but I’d be willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that we’re going to find ourselves ‘volunteering’ for enlistment for the duration. The Navy sure as hell can’t fly these babies without trained crews and as far as that goes... we’re them.”

  All nodded in agreement. Clearly, the advent of war had changed their future. But certain givens were obvious; every effort, every plan could be directed toward only one goal: the successful conclusion of the war. If that meant they would all be inducted into the service in one way or another, then so be it. Along with every other person in the country, all their personal plans and hopes were now on hold.

  Jack Poindexter also thought about his family. The last message he had been able to send was from Noumea, just before the Pearl Harbor attack. For sure, he thought, his wife would be calling the Treasure Island operations office every day to see if they had any word on his whereabouts. He wondered how she was managing; adjusting each day to the uncertainty about his safety and well-being and, because of the complete radio silence, not a single hint of his fate or whereabouts. Well, just another few days, then it will be over. Just then Rod Brown appeared in the passageway. “Skipper, I think you should take a look at the flight progress plots. We could be running pretty close on our fuel reserves.”

  “Oh? How close?” Ford asked as he rose to accompany Brown to the flight deck.

  “After the diversion we took to get around those two lines of thunderstorms, it looks like the upper winds pushed us further north than we had thought. I’ve computed a course line to get us back on track soon, but we’ll be eating into some of our reserve fuel. Jocko figures that we’ll have only about two hours left by the time we reach Natal. And that’s only if we lean out the fuel mixture to maintain best fuel consumption airspeed and if the upper winds don’t mess us up again.”

  As soon as they reached the flight deck Ford examined the Mercator chart “You’re sure about those star sights?”

  “Yes, sir. The sky is clear and smooth. Those were three of the best fixes I’ve taken since leaving L.A.”

  “Then I guess we’re just going to have to go with it. What’s your best ETA at Natal?”

  “I make it at right around 11:00 or 11:30 in the morning, Natal time.”

  Ford glanced at his watch. “Another eleven hours. And a two hour reserve from there gives us until about 1:30 P.M. to dry tanks.” And here he paused. “We’d better damn well have a landfall by then. But I suggest we break out the emergency open-ocean landing procedures so that everyone can refresh himself on evacuation duties... just in case.”

  When Bob Ford suggested anything having to do with operational duties it was understood that such a ‘suggestion’ was tantamount to a direct order. All the crew members were soon immersed in the task of reviewing their respective duties in the event of a forced landing at sea. Everyone knew his assignment, but it was a drill that had to be constantly reviewed and kept fresh, if only in the back of their minds, as they went about the more normal routines of the flight.

  Third Officer Jim Henricksen, taking his turn in the right cockpit seat, squinted through his sunglasses at the bright horizon ahead of him. The glare of the Equatorial sun was reflecting off the towering cumulus clouds just off the starboard bow, sending a flood of brilliant white light through the cockpit windscreen. It was 9 A.M. There was no sign of land. Christ, he thought to himself, I sure hope Brown’s course correction was right. We ought to be sighting the coast by now. For all I know we could be just paralleling it on this heading. Wouldn’t that be a crock: run out of gas with the coastline just over the horizon to the west. Damn it, I think we should take a more westerly heading...

  ‘Land ho!” John Steers’ shout grabbed everyone’s attention.

  “Where?”

  “Dead abeam the port wing. About five miles. Looks like some sort of island.” Steers announced, as he kept watch through the port cabin window just above the navigator’s chart table.

  Johnny Mack in the left cockpit seat, turned to look out his side window. Sure enough: they were just about to pass it. A small island... no... wait. Maybe we’d better check it out. Almost without thinking, Mack eased the big ship left to have a better look. “Hey, John check the chart. Can you get a fix on the name of that island? There seems to be two of them, one small one and then a bigger one south of it.”

  Steers reached for the South Atlantic chart which had been obtained from the British at Colombo. He scanned the area around the ‘bulge’ of Brazil where Natal was located. Sure enough, just northeast of Natal, about two hundred miles off the coast, there they were: two islands; one large, one smaller and what appeared to be a rock shoal west of them. No other prominent landmarks. “Bingo! They’re the Fernando de Noronha Islands. Belong to Brazil, according to this map. Let’s see...” he paused and took a plotting ruler and laid it on the map. “A heading of about 240 degrees and right around two hundred miles and we’ll have Natal in our sights!”

  The tensions of the long flight seemed to ease. All on the flight deck relaxed, glad in the knowledge that this longest leg of their journey was close to a safe conclusion.

  “Jocko’s Howgozit was right on the money.” Swede Rothe announced from the engineer’s station. “According to my fuel curve we ought to hit the water at Natal with just under two hours reserve. Hey, give that man a seegar!”

  Bob Ford had been down below finishing breakfast when Johnny Mack swung the Boeing around to take a closer look at the islands. With his feel for every movement of the ship, he was well aware that something had changed. When he came up to the flight deck, Johnny Mack filled him in on the sighting and the seemingly pin-point accuracy of their navigation. “Good show, Johnny,” Ford commented. “The rest ought to be a piece of cake. We’re back in home territory from here on out.”

  Ford took his place in the left seat and Johnny Mack moved over to the right seat. The rest of the crew took care of their own duty rotations as they prepared for the landing at Natal. The long flight had given most of them an opportunity to take a reasonable amount of sleep during the night, so they were less fatigued than might have been expected. By the time Ford eased the big ship onto the water at Natal they had been in the air 23 hours and 35 minutes. When the Boeing was secured to the Pan American seaplane dock they all agreed to as short a stopover as possible. The finish line of their odyssey was in sight and they were eager to reach it.

  CHAPTER XV

  THE HOME STRETCH

  The station manager of Pan American’s Natal base smiled and extended his hand as Ford stepped onto the seaplane dock. “Welcome to Natal. We’ve been waiting for you. We received a dispatch from the U. S. Consulate office in town just a few hours ago. I guess you’ll be happy to get this trip over with. Seems to me that you’ve had one hell of a long ride.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s had its moments, I can tell you that. But speaking about getting it over with, what’s the shortest turnaround time you can give us? My crew is really anxious to ge
t going. We all managed to get a pretty good dose of shut-eye on this long leg from Leopoldville, so the sooner we can get out of here for Port-of-Spain, the better we’d all like it.”

  “The refueling should take a couple of hours, but there’s one small hitch: we have some new health regulations now and we’re required to spray every arriving aircraft for mosquitoes – they’re trying to control an outbreak of yellow fever. We’ll have to get all the crew off, send a spray crew on board and seal the aircraft for at least an hour while the insecticide does its job.”

  “That’s new since I flew in here last. But, I guess we’ll just have to put up with it. How about taking us all in for lunch while your people take care of that and the refueling. Then I’d like to plan a takeoff as soon as possible.”

  “Sure thing. Come on up to the office. I’ll arrange for a crew bus to take all of you into town. Everything should be done by the time you get back.”

  When NC18602 had been properly secured the crew went ashore for lunch. Very shortly two men in protective rubber suits and masks, carrying portable spray tanks, went aboard. They closed and sealed the entry hatch behind them and proceeded to fill the Boeing with the fine mist of aerosol spray that would kill any errant mosquitoes that had hitched a ride from Africa. The men stayed aboard for almost an hour, and when the mist had settled, reappeared on the sea wing, hurriedly closed the entry hatch, and disappeared up the ramp and into a truck they had parked nearby earlier. Then they drove off hastily, in a cloud of dust, as if they were anxious to be somewhere other than on the Pan Am base.

  About two hours later Ford and his crew were back from lunch. “Say,” Ford remarked to the station manager, “ever since we left Khartoum we’ve had to put up with the damndest racket from Number One engine. The exhaust stack blew off and we’ve really not been able to repair it properly. Do you have anything in the way of a spare parts inventory that might include an exhaust stack we could use?”