A more immediate worry was the cold. They had no heat, no light, no stove. They had no sleeping bags, no heavy clothing, no Arctic survival gear. A few seconds outside would coat a man’s face with frost. In minutes, blood would rush from his extremities to his core. Exposed skin would die. In the sky, the men on a B-17 were warriors. On the ground, they were frozen sardines in a busted-open can.
They had no way to call for help: the crash had badly damaged the radio. The crew was afraid to even try it, fearing that sparks would ignite the spilled fuel they could smell all around them. Unlike the C-53 crew, the men of the PN9E couldn’t enjoy morale-boosting, potentially lifesaving contact with the outside world. Unless, that is, radioman Lolly Howarth could repair the smashed equipment, piece together a jury-rigged transmitter, or find an emergency transmitter buried in the wreckage. His crewmates weren’t counting on it. They stacked the broken radio gear at the open end of the tail section. The equipment didn’t work, so the heavy black boxes could at least act as a windbreak.
When engineer Paul Spina regained his senses in the tail section, he found his crewmates crowded around him, rubbing his frozen hands and feet. Monteverde located a first aid kit and put his Boy Scout training to use. For a half hour, he pulled and twisted on the engineer’s arm so the broken bones would line up and knit together. Spina tolerated the rough treatment without complaint or painkillers, and Monteverde admired the small man’s toughness. For a splint, Monteverde used a piece of aluminum that Spencer tore from the interior of the ruined plane. Even wrapped in parachute cloth, it felt cold against Spina’s skin, but it kept his arm straight. Then Monteverde went man to man, tending wounds with the first aid kit.
As Monteverde ministered to them, crewmen gathered supplies and counted rations. Hoping to make an insulated nest on the floor of the tail section, they arranged seat cushions, blankets, window covers, travel bags, and unfurled parachutes. They found a heavy canvas tarp, normally used to cover the plane’s nose between flights, and draped it over the open end of their quarters. They were shivering and wet, but at least the wind and snow wouldn’t roam unchecked through the PN9E’s tail. Spina marveled that the tarp was in the plane to begin with; it was supposed to have been stripped off before takeoff and left behind at the base. Without it, he thought, Greenland would have made quick work of them.
Tenuous connections to the outside world raised the crash survivors’ spirits. Woody Puryear expected to be on the B-17 for a few hours at most, to search for his missing friends in the C-53. Now he swelled with pride when he pulled a silk parachute from its pack and saw the words “Made in Lexington, Kentucky.” Puryear was a strapping, twenty-five-year-old country boy, more than six feet tall and 210 pounds. Before the war, he’d worked as a meat cutter and electric lineman in his hometown of Campbellsville, Kentucky. Lexington was the big city, some sixty miles away. But in a shattered B-17 on Greenland’s ice cap, Lexington was a link to family and friends. The parachute label made Puryear pensive. “Memories of home,” he’d say, “are best when you’re far away—when you don’t know whether you’ll ever get home again.”
The men knew they’d soon be painfully thirsty and hungry. Monteverde blamed the shock of the crash for making them all parched. But all the liquids on board were frozen. Best and Puryear had brought along a thermos filled with hot coffee, but now they opened it to find a block of brown ice. With no way to melt it, the crew ate dry snow. It kept them hydrated, but it made their throats scratchy and wouldn’t quench their thirst, no matter how much they swallowed. Spina’s hands were too frozen for him to feed himself, so the others filled his mouth with snow.
SERGEANT LLOYD “WOODY” PURYEAR, VOLUNTEER SEARCHER ABOARD THE PN9E. (COURTESY OF JEAN SPINA.)
Darkness came early in November, so the nine men settled in for the night in their rounded metal cell. When whole, the B-17 stretched seventy-four feet. The torn-open rear section was about half that, and much of the interior space was unusable. The bomber’s curved walls, with ribs made of aluminum alloy, narrowed increasingly the closer a man got to the tail. The floor consisted of catwalks normally used by the waist and tail gunners to move through the B-17’s rear, or aft, section. Now, the catwalks were the only level places on which to lie down. That meant the nine-man crew of the PN9E had to squeeze onto a platform about fifteen feet long and three feet wide, or about five square feet per man. They tumbled on each other like a litter of puppies, some pressed against the plane’s cold, hard ribs.
They wrapped themselves in blankets of cut-up parachute cloth and everything soft they could salvage. They wriggled their toes to keep them from freezing. With each breath they inhaled fumes of splattered fuel. Men wanted to smoke cigarettes, but Monteverde forbade it, fearing that they’d explode their quarters. Spina’s friends pressed themselves against him on both sides for body heat. Stretching their legs had to be done in turn. Moving through the scrum was almost impossible, so to change position they grabbed onto the metal butts of the .50-caliber machine guns and used them like subway handholds. When night fell, the pitch-black shelter rang with calls of men trying to avoid stepping on each other: “Is that all right? Am I missing you all right?”
Before they sought the relief of sleep, Monteverde made a modest announcement: “This is as new to me as it is to you. According to regulations, I am in charge. But I want any and all suggestions you might happen to think of. We will work it out together.”
AFTER A FITFUL night, they awoke the next morning, Tuesday, November 10, 1942, and rearranged their den for greater warmth and comfort. They found canvas wing covers and added them to the tarp curtain at the open end of the tail section, but the effort to make the compartment weather-tight was futile. Cold wind and fine snow shot through every crack between the tarps. Even the seams of their clothing weren’t tight enough to block the sting of wind-driven snow.
The day was too stormy to leave the plane and investigate their surroundings, but several men scrounged around the wreckage. Inside the crushed radio compartment, they stumbled upon the most valuable item of all: an emergency radio transmitter. Waterproof, weighing thirty-five pounds, and painted bright yellow, the radio came with a metal-frame box kite and a reel with eight hundred feet of antenna wire. Unlike the crew of the C-53, which didn’t have an emergency radio on board, the men aboard the PN9E wouldn’t need to rely on their plane’s dying batteries. Power for the transmitter came from a hand-cranked generator built into the housing. The radio had curved sides that allowed a seated man to hold it between his thighs while turning the power crank. The idea was that an airman whose plane ditched in the ocean would sit in a life raft and crank out rescue calls. The radio’s hourglass design spawned its affectionate nickname, the “Gibson Girl,” after the curvy women in drawings by fashion artist Charles Gibson. One problem was that a Gibson Girl spoke but didn’t listen; the radio was a transmitter but not a receiver. Still, a lost man with a Gibson Girl between his legs had a fighting chance at survival.
The wind was too strong to fly the antenna kite their first full day on the ice. But in the following days, Lolly Howarth, the radio operator, flew it whenever the storm died down. Though unsure whether the radio transmitter worked, or whether anyone received its message, Howarth sent steady streams of SOS signals at the universal maritime distress frequency of 500 kilohertz. Serious and quiet, a twenty-three-year-old aspiring actor from Wausaukee, Wisconsin, Howarth soon began worrying that the Gibson Girl wouldn’t save them, after all. He eyed the plane’s damaged radio equipment and wondered if he could fix it. The sooner, the better.
CORPORAL LOREN “LOLLY” HOWARTH, RADIO OPERATOR ABOARD THE PN9E. (U.S. COAST GUARD PHOTOGRAPH.)
An inventory revealed enough K rations—canned meats, biscuits, cereal bars, gum, and other staples—for one man to survive thirty-six days. That meant four days’ worth of meals for the nine of them. Monteverde intended to stretch the rations for ten days, knowing that even that might not be long enough.
Each box of K ra
tions included a four-pack of cigarettes. But as much as the tobacco might have relieved hunger, Monteverde continued to ban it for fear of igniting the leaked fuel. They also found six boxes of U.S. Army Field Ration D, the military’s code name for chocolate bars. The D rations were included in three “jungle kits” given to the officers: Monteverde, Spencer, and O’Hara. One quirk was that D-ration chocolate sacrificed flavor for heat resistance, so the bars wouldn’t melt in soldiers’ packs. That was the least of the PN9E crew’s worries.
It might seem like backward military logic to give jungle supplies to men flying the Snowball Route over Greenland. But no one complained: the kits also contained long bolo knives that could chop snow and ice.
THE NEXT DAY, November 11, brought no respite from driving snow and subzero temperatures. Cold in Greenland is almost a living thing, a tormenting force that robs strapping men of strength, denies them rest, and refuses them comfort. In time, it kills like a python, squeezing life from its victims.
Again the crew hunkered down. They savored the reduced rations Monteverde distributed and ate as much dry snow as they could swallow. The big treat of the day was a few squares of chocolate. A cycle developed in which their hands and feet froze and then thawed, each time triggering a burning, aching sensation. When it happened, they’d say their extremities had “stoved up.” Navigator Bill O’Hara suffered the most from its effects, particularly in his feet.
That night, desperate for a smoke, Paul Spina ignored the spilled fuel and Monteverde’s orders. The two had developed a warm rapport during their ferrying duties, and Spina knew that Monteverde was no disciplinarian. When everyone else fell asleep, he unwrapped his bandaged hands with his mouth. Awkwardly using both frostbitten hands, Spina fished out a cigarette and matches from his pocket, stuck the cigarette between his lips, and tucked a matchbox under his chin. When he struck a flame, his crewmates startled awake. Spina calmly lit his cigarette and asked if anyone wanted a drag. The plane didn’t explode and neither did Monteverde, who had a soft spot for the affable engineer. Spina also had a bond with copilot Harry Spencer, who soon held cigarettes to his mouth and slipped him extra bits of chocolate.
PRIVATE PAUL SPINA, ENGINEER ABOARD THE PN9E. (COURTESY OF JEAN SPINA.)
Now that they could light matches, they used small fires to melt snow in a thermos cup. Little by little they had water to drink, not eat.
During their first three days on the ice cap, as the storm blew itself out, the crew of the PN9E listened for planes overhead, fantasized about long furloughs after being rescued, and got to know one another.
THE PN9E’S FAILURE to return to Bluie West One doubled the job confronting searchers. No one knew where the B-17 had crashed, but the area near Koge Bay that had been assigned to Monteverde’s crew for the C-53 search seemed a logical place to look. Despite the storms, on November 10 seventeen planes left Bluie West One to search for the PN9E. Meanwhile, sixteen C-47s and six B-17s went out looking for McDowell’s C-53. The skies over Greenland were teeming with search planes diverted from the war. All returned that night with no sign of either missing crew.
The following day, two search flights went out for each of the downed planes, but heavy storms near Bluie West One drove them back to base. The same Arctic weather that contributed to or caused both crashes now conspired to prevent McDowell’s C-53 and Monteverde’s B-17 from being found.
ALTHOUGH THE SKIES on the west coast of Greenland were stormy, the weather on the east coast gave the men of the PN9E a break on Thursday, November 12. Dawn arrived clear and bright. The crew was weak and tired, but the blue sky gave them a lift. Radioman Lolly Howarth flew the Gibson Girl kite and looked more closely at the damaged equipment from the radio compartment.
Crew members strong enough to work crawled out of their hideout to rake several feet of windblown snow that had piled around and atop the olive-colored plane. The temperature was 30 degrees below zero, but the task kept their minds busy and their bodies active. They hoped that removing the snow would keep the B-17 visible from the sky if a search plane flew overhead. Despite all they’d been through, their spirits remained strong. They told each other that just as they’d been out searching for the C-53, someone would be out looking for them.
As his men kept busy, Monteverde ducked inside the tail section to keep Spina company. They talked awhile, and soon the pilot and the engineer realized that they needed spiritual help. They knelt together to pray.
Meanwhile, copilot Harry Spencer and navigator Bill O’Hara decided to have a look around. Despite O’Hara’s frozen feet, he wanted to tough it out. He was twenty-four, the hard-nosed son of a coal mine manager from outside Scranton, Pennsylvania. After working in the mines during his teenage years, O’Hara graduated from the University of Scranton with a degree in business administration. Awaiting him at home was a beautiful girlfriend, Joan Fennie.
LIEUTENANT WILLIAM “BILL” O’HARA, NAVIGATOR ABOARD THE PN9E. (COURTESY OF JEAN SPINA.)
Spencer and O’Hara knew that Koge Bay was southeast of their wreck. On clear days like this one, they could see the water. Distances were difficult to calculate across the featureless expanse of ice, but they felt confident the bay was no more than ten miles away. If they could reach it on foot, they might be able to establish their position with greater precision. Maybe they could use the Gibson Girl to hail one of the Coast Guard ships patrolling nearby. The emergency radio had an automatic mode to send SOS signals and also a manual mode for custom messages. Spencer considered using a life raft from the PN9E to paddle along the coast to the weather shack at Beach Head Station.
Even if they couldn’t hike to the bay, Spencer and O’Hara intended to plot the locations of nearby crevasses, to keep everyone safe when they ventured away from the plane. They hoped that a map of ice fissures would also provide a pathway to the crash site for rescuers on foot, motorsleds, or dogsleds.
Aware that some crevasses were covered by snow or ice bridges, the two lieutenants walked slowly, testing the ground in front of them before each step. They found one crevasse and made their way around it, then found another and again took evasive action. About fifty yards from the plane, Spencer stepped on what felt like a patch of solid ice.
A moment later, he disappeared.
6
MAN DOWN
NOVEMBER 1942
HARRY SPENCER THOUGHT he was a goner.
As a boy, he’d devoured books about adventures in the Arctic. He marveled at its wonders and respected its dangers. The young Texan knew that he’d fallen through an ice bridge covering a hidden crevasse. He also knew that being swallowed by a crevasse is like being swallowed by a whale: after a brief, exhilarating rush, it rarely ends well.
As he fell, Spencer retained enough presence of mind to understand that his life expectancy was pitifully brief. If the crevasse was deep, say three to four hundred feet, he could expect to live for about five seconds before staining the ice red at the bottom.
A five-second fall might be just enough time for the handsome young lieutenant to see the life that he was supposed to live flash before his eyes. There might be time to picture his pretty young wife, Patsy, and to imagine the pleasures and sorrows they’d share. If Spencer could think as fast as he fell, five seconds might be enough time to envision three fine children, three wonderful grandchildren, and an unbreakable Friday date night on their houseboat. He might see himself endure heartbreaking loss and celebrate great joys; become an admired business, community, and church leader in Irving, Texas; and win local office and an armful of civic honors. He might have time to imagine his own obituary. Yet five seconds wouldn’t be enough time to appreciate such an obituary’s closing lines: “Harry’s intelligence, wit, laughter, sense of adventure, commitment to enabling the city of Irving to be a home for all people, commitment to education and good medical care for all, deep love for the Creator, and devotion to family and friends, touched everyone he met along the way. He believed the Boy Scout motto and lived out the cree
d in his daily walk. He will be missed!”
With every second, with every foot Spencer fell deeper into the abyss, he moved further away from the rich, full life he seemed destined to enjoy.
Nature wasn’t likely to offer any help. Crevasses are caused when adjacent parts of a glacier move at different speeds toward the edge of Greenland. Some portions of glaciers creep while others race, as though eager to fling themselves into new lives as icebergs. As physical tensions rise between fast- and slow-moving portions of a glacier, the ice fractures. The rifts that result are crevasses. Because most crevasses have unbroken vertical walls, Spencer had every reason to believe that he had fallen into nature’s equivalent of a twenty- or thirty-story elevator shaft.
But something unexpected and extraordinary happened. After falling through the ice bridge, Harry Spencer didn’t drop for five seconds to the bottom of the crevasse. Time seemed to slow as he fell—he felt as though he were falling forever—but in fact he fell for less than three seconds. And that made all the difference.
Spencer’s fall was cut short by a block of ice the size of a Jeep that had somehow wedged itself between the walls of the crevasse, below the spot where the ice bridge broke. The ice block created a natural platform large enough to halt Spencer’s fall about one hundred feet from the surface. Spencer landed on his back, dazed but unhurt. An agnostic might call it an astonishing piece of good fortune, but Spencer was a churchgoing man, so he’d forever consider it divine intervention.
As he took stock of his situation, Spencer realized that he was covered by a blanket of snow; the top layer from the surface had followed him into the crevasse. He brushed himself off and counted his blessings. He was alive and well, but his predicament wasn’t over. Now he had to get out.
Frozen in Time Page 6
