by Ed Dover
The station manager thought a moment. “Not for that ship. You’re the first B-314 that’s ever come through here. I tell you what, though, we do have some spare parts we inherited from a wrecked PBY that came in here a while ago. If I’m not mistaken, they should include an exhaust stack. You want to check it out to see if it would fit? Maybe it could be rigged at least temporarily until you reach Port-of-Spain.”
“I’ll have Swede Rothe, my engineer, check it out. If anyone might figure a way to rig it, Swede sure could.”
When Ford explained the situation to Rothe, the engineer shrugged. “Hell, we’ve gotten this far without it, but if you think it would do any good I’ll take a look at it. Shouldn’t be too much of a job to jury-rig it but I can’t guarantee how long it would last.”
“Well, do what you can. But let’s try to wrap this up and get out of here as soon as possible.”
Rothe and Jocko Parrish set to work trying to make the PBY stack fit the collector ring on the exhaust manifold. They managed to attach it, but the design differences made for some rather loose tolerances when it came to making it secure enough for the stresses of flight. Finally, they scrounged up some sheet metal, fashioned a reinforcing collar to fit around the whole assembly, and wired it in place with baling wire. Rothe stepped back and inspected their handiwork. “It ain’t S-O-P
[14] but maybe it’ll hang together long enough to get us to our next stop.”
An hour later the refueling was completed. Ford and the station manager walked down to the dock together as the rest of the crew went aboard. Ford remarked, “We’d better not delay any longer than we have to. The boys are really itching to get this whole affair over with, now that we’re so close to home; and I’m damn certain the Company wants this bird back in the home nest pronto. The way they put it in that Plan A directive, it sounds as if they put a real high priority on putting these ships into some kind of support role as soon as possible.”
The two stood silently for a moment, then Ford turned and extended his hand. “I guess it’s time to go.”
The station manager shook Ford’s hand and nodded, “Get home safe.”
Very quickly the four engines were started, the bow and tail lines released, and NC18602 moved out into the seaplane channel. Ford positioned the big ship midway between the left and right marker buoys that marked the beginning of the takeoff area, gave the signal to Swede Rothe, and moved the throttles forward to full takeoff power. The Boeing surged forward, spray flying. In a few seconds they were on the step and then airborne. Just at that moment, the jury-rigged exhaust stack blew off with a loud bang and once again the Number One engine started its incessant hammering noise.
“Well, so much for Yankee ingenuity!” Swede Rothe exclaimed. “That was sure a lot of damn wasted energy for nothing!”
“It was worth a try.” Jocko Parrish tried to console him “You can’t win ‘em all, Swede.”
Once at altitude, Ford turned the watch over to John Steers. As he stepped down from the left seat and walked toward the stairwell, Rod Brown, at the navigator’s table, called him over.
“Yeah, Rod, what is it?”
“Skipper, I think something’s fishy here. I know damn well that just before we went ashore for lunch I made certain to secure the ship’s safe with all our receipts and papers. Just now I was going to add the Natal receipts to the list and when I went to open the safe, it was already unlocked. Somebody’s been in there. All our receipts are gone. Along with some of the trip logs. If they’d been after money – we sure didn’t have any left. So why would they take the receipts and logs? They’re not much good to anyone... unless it wasn’t money they were after in the first place.”
“What are you saying, Rod? That someone wanted our gas and food receipts and trip logs? The only thing I get from that is that someone was damned interested in where we’ve been.”
“Yeah, and the best I can figure is it might have been those guys in the rubber suits. Could they have been spies?”
“It’s possible. Brazil has a large immigrant population of both Germans and Japanese. Some of them might be spying for Japan or Germany. In any case, I don’t know what we can do about it at this point. I suppose we could try to get a message to the station manager warning him about those guys if they show up again to spray other aircraft, but it would probably be a long-shot. If they were spies I don’t think they’d hang around very long; especially if they think they got what they were looking for. Besides, any info they can get off those logs and receipts is probably stuff they already know anyway. We’ll report it when we get to Port-of- Spain; but I wouldn’t worry about it too much.” With that, Ford went below to get his customary cup of coffee from the galley and Rod Brown turned back to the chart on the navigator’s table.
On a course that roughly followed the Brazilian coastline, they flew past Fortaleza and entered the vast domain of the Amazon Basin. Late afternoon shadows created a mottled mosaic across the tops of the rain forest. The short-lived twilight soon gave way to the indigo of night. Once again they were flying as if enveloped in black velvet, except for the brilliant stars that spangled the upper hemisphere of sky. Soon, unseen by the crew, the city of Belem slipped abeam their wing and then they were crossing the great Amazon estuary. In this way they continued through the night; across the bulge of the Guianas and the northeast corner of Venezuela.
Thirteen hours after leaving Natal, Ford took over the left seat, eased the big Boeing down toward the harbor at Port-of-Spain, and with a smoothness born of long familiarity with the area, skimmed past the approach lights to the seaplane channel and settled the ship gently onto the water. It was 3 A.M. Altogether, they had been on the ship for more than forty hours since leaving Leopoldville.
Port-of-Spain was one of the more well-established of Pan American’s South American bases. As soon as NC18602 was tied up to the seaplane dock, Ford alerted the chief ground mechanic regarding the need to repair the Number One engine’s exhaust stack. From their well-stocked store of spare parts, the local mechanics set to work fitting a new stack to the engine. Meanwhile, Ford and his crew boarded the crew limo and were taken to the local hotel where they all promptly bedded down and proceeded to sleep around the clock.
By noon on January 5th, most of the crew were pretty well slept out. With only one more flight leg left, they were eager to get going; to contact their families; to get back to as much of a normal routine as they could manage. The mood was expansive, relaxed, and upbeat as they gathered at the Pan American commissary for lunch.
“I sure hope the Company appreciates our efforts.” John Steers remarked. “I’d say we’ve managed a lot more than just what you’d call ‘above and beyond the call of duty’. I’ll be damned if I ever want to see another bottle of English beer as long as I live! I can just picture that first case of Bud on ice that I’m going to order as soon as we hit New York. Mmmmmm!” and he half-closed his eyes in order to evoke that image.
“You can have your beer!” Swede Rothe chimed in. “I’m hopping the first plane for Oakland. When I come through that door at home the first two things I’m gonna do is drop my luggage and make love to my wife – not necessarily in that order!” he joked.
“Yeah, and I can finally get a decent change of clothes!” Jack Poindexter added. “At least you guys have had your regular two weeks worth of changes with you all the way. You know what it’s like to have to live with yourself in the same set of underwear for six weeks?”
“We know! We know!” they all pinched their nostrils shut and pointed, laughing, at Poindexter.
“Yeah, but what now?” Eugene Leach interjected with a more serous note. “If the Company is turning over all our airplanes to the Navy, where does that leave us?”
“I’m willing to bet that we’ll still be flying them,” Ford replied, “but maybe under some kind of special service designation. Who knows, we could all be drafted into the Navy. Something like a merchant marine, except we’ll be in airplanes instead of bo
ats.”
The rest of the lunch conversation centered on this still-unresolved issue of what was to happen to them after they arrived in New York. Pan American was well-known for its stiffly formal procedures in personnel matters. Unless you had a lot of seniority, you were pretty well at the mercy of the flight operations staffing board when it came to location and flight assignments. Now the factor of the war added a new uncertainty to the equation. In just a few more hours they would all have some answers to those questions.
By two in the afternoon the Port-of-Spain ground crews had completed the repairs to the Number One exhaust stack and the Clipper was fueled and stocked with provisions. Ford had contacted the operations supervisor earlier and now a new and up-to-date set of en route and approach and landing charts for the New York terminal were prominently laid out on the navigator’s table. Refreshed and eager to be under way, they made short work of all pre-flight procedures. Within minutes, Ford had guided NC18602 to the departure end of the seaplane channel, turned around, and lined up for takeoff. “One more time, Swede...” Ford addressed his First Engineer. “Let’s take it to the stops!”
Swede Rothe responded with a nod toward the cockpit and grasped the four throttle controls on the engineer’s control panel. At the same time, Bob Ford took hold of the cockpit throttles and in unison they moved their respective controls smoothly against the full-power stops. Now, for the last time on this strange odyssey, the four Wright engines responded with the overpowering thunder of their combined 6000-plus horsepower and NC18602 surged forward with what seemed to be its own sense of eagerness. In seconds they were on the step, then airborne. They were into the final turn and the home stretch was finally in view.
Once again they flew through the afternoon and into the evening. Low clouds prevented them from sighting any of the islands of the West Indies as they proceeded on a direct course toward New York. Once darkness had fallen they all fell into the standard rotation of duties. But those whose turn it was to take some time off and relax in a bunk in the crew quarters, did not feel much like sleeping. The ship was charged with a sense of anticipation as each hour brought them closer to the end of their mission.
At 14 hours 45 minutes into the flight Bob Ford came up to the flight deck and took his place in the left seat. “Well, Johnny,” he addressed his First Officer, “are you ready for this? We’re about to rejoin the ranks of the workaday world!”
“Hey! I’m as ready as I’ll ever be This has been one helluva Sunday drive. Let’s do it!”
Bob Ford turned in his seat and called to Jack Poindexter at the radio desk. “Jack, I guess you can finally turn those radios on again. Get me a set-up on 2870 and pipe it up here. I’ll make the first call for landing instructions.”
Jack Poindexter gave a thumbs-up sign to his Captain. He flipped on the power switches for the transmitters and receivers, happy, at last, after many days of enforced inactivity, to be doing something useful. Once he had the terminal voice channel set up he switched it to the cockpit remote console and advised Ford that they were ready to transmit.
Bob Ford glanced at his wrist watch. 5:54 A.M. I guess it’s time to give those LaGuardia boys a wake up call, he thought. He picked up his microphone, but paused with it poised just in front of his face. Just what the hell do you say after coming all this way? The simpler the better, I guess. Well, here goes. He pressed the microphone button with his thumb.
The morning was black and bitter cold. A mournful whisper of wind teased the outside of the glassed-in control tower. It was the only sound to be heard inside the dark interior where the lone mid-shift controller sat nursing his coffee mug. Aircraft movements during the night in the New York control area were minimal. His thoughts rambled. Two hours to go. God, I wish it was light already. Tough trying to stay awake on dull shifts like this when it stays dark so long. As soon as it’s light I can at least pretend I’m not half asleep. Oh for that day shift next week...
“LAGUARDIA TOWER, LAGUARDIA TOWER – PAN AMERICAN CLIPPER NC18602, INBOUND FROM AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND. CAPTAIN FORD REPORTING. DUE TO ARRIVE PAN AMERICAN MARINE TERMINAL LAGUARDIA IN SEVEN MINUTES. OVER!”
“What the hell!”
Did he fall asleep and dream it? But in a couple of seconds he was fully alert and digested the full impact of the sudden presence blasting out of the loudspeaker. Hunching forward in his seat, he grabbed his microphone and, almost sub-consciously, out of long habit, responded. “PAN AMERICAN CLIPPER 18602. THIS IS LAGUARDIA TOWER, ROGER...” He paused.
“LaGuardia, this is Pan Am. D’ja hear that too? Sounds like we got us a surprise visitor.” The second voice came over the intercom from Pan American’s Flight Watch office at the Marine Terminal.
The tower controller reached for his intercom. “Yeah, uh, roger on that... What the hell are we supposed to do with him? He can’t land in the seaplane channel in the dark. And where in hell did he pop up from anyway? We don’t have any inbounds posted on the overseas board.”
“I guess we just have to have him hold until daylight. Just hope he has enough gas.”
“CLIPPER 18602, THIS IS LAGUARDIA. THE SEAPLANE CHANNEL IS CLOSED UNTIL DAYLIGHT. YOU WILL HAVE TO HOLD FOR ABOUT AN HOUR BEFORE WE CAN CLEAR YOU FOR LANDING. ADVISE INTENTIONS PLEASE.”
“LAGUARDIA, ROGER, NO PROBLEM. WE CAN DO THAT.”
“AND, SAY AGAIN, CONFIRM YOUR DEPARTURE POINT. WE SHOW NO OVERSEAS INBOUNDS AT THIS TIME.”
“I SAY AGAIN, INBOUND FROM AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND, BY WAY OF THE LONG WAY ‘ROUND FOR ABOUT THE PAST MONTH. IT’LL SURE BE GOOD TO GET HOME AGAIN.”
The Pan Am flight watch operator who had intercepted the first inbound call promptly alerted Pan Am’s Transatlantic Manager and the Public Relations Director. They, in turn, by a pre-arranged procedure, notified Army Intelligence and the Immigration Service. They all high-tailed their way to the airport. Except for these few, no one else was aware that history was about to be made.
As NC18602 came across the north shore of Long Island, Bob Ford peered through the blue-gray light of the cloudy dawn, seeking out the familiar landmarks that he knew would be there. Even though several years had passed since he had flown the Atlantic routes, his memory of the area was still clear. And the newly-acquired landing chart helped to pinpoint the necessary check points. Shortly he sighted the big natural gas tank on the Bronx shore, looming through the mist. Then he made out the familiar outline of the seaplane channel. Reducing power to a standard rate of descent, he gently brought the Boeing around toward the final approach path. With the relaxed familiarity of a man coming home, he eased into the final landing attitude. The touchdown was feather light. As the ship settled into its slow taxi mode, he glanced out his side window. The spray still splashing back over the sea wings was freezing into ice as it made contact with the metal surface. Sure looks cold out there. Hadn’t thought about that. All this flying along the Equator I guess... forgot what winter is all about back here. Sure hope they have some warm jackets or blankets. Just then the Boeing took a strong lurch, skidded around to the right and came to a sudden stop. What the hell!
“Hey, Skipper,” it was Johnny Mack, “I think we just got hung up on a sand bar.”
“That wasn’t supposed to be there, damn it! It’s not marked on the landing chart as a posted obstruction. Thirty thousand miles of hell and we get snagged on a damned sandbar in New York!” Ford was generally regarded as a fairly even-tempered person. But this final obstacle to a successful end to their journey was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back, and Ford’s patience. Burning with pique, he slammed all four throttles to the full power stops. The sudden surge of full power tugged the big ship off the sandbar and once again into navigable water. Just as quickly, Ford brought the throttles back to normal taxi speed.
In short order they were moored to the docking buoy. As John Steers hung the hawser loop over the port bow stanchion he could see that it was encrusted with ice. He shivered in the unaccustomed chill of the bitter New York w
inter. It felt good to be home, but he could sure use some warm clothes right about now, he thought.
Following the crew debriefing in the operations office of Pan American’s LaGuardia Marine Terminal, Bob Ford was asked to accompany the Army Air Force Intelligence team back to Washington where he was interviewed by the Chief of Naval Operations. They were mainly interested in whether or not he had any information regarding the whereabouts of certain U.S. Naval units with which they had lost contact in the confusing early days after Pearl Harbor. Ford informed them of his meeting with the PBY pilot in Surabaya and of the fate of the PBY squadron out of Cavite. He also mentioned their encounter with the Japanese submarine in the Bay of Bengal.
In its traditionally formal and precise way of handling personnel matters, Pan American allowed each crew member only two weeks leave before returning them to regular flight duties. Perhaps it was the urgency of the war; perhaps it was the war-time secrecy that inhibited them from making any public demonstration of appreciation for what they had accomplished. In any case, the only outward recognition consisted of a rather heavily-censored public relations announcement released to the press the day after they arrived at LaGuardia, and a small write-up in the next edition of the Pan Am house newsletter New Horizons.
Other Pan American Clippers and flight crews had also been caught out along the line on December 7th. They, too, had followed their ‘Plan A’ orders. But none had as far to go or as long to fly to return home safely as had the crew of NC18602. Several years into the post-war era, the records it had set would be eclipsed by the new generation of land-based commercial airliners. By then all the B-314s would be gone. Only the memories would remain, locked in the minds of Bob Ford and his crew. The stories told to their children and grandchildren would feed fertile imaginations as the epic flight became the stuff that legends are made of.
