by Mark Vance
Suddenly, he feels another pair of hands on the controls and hears a strangely familiar voice. Uncle Ray immediately begins offering much needed reassurance that everything will be all right, but suggests that he needs to start an immediate left turn to avoid more severe weather. Uncle Ray’s hands guide Steve’s hands through the left turn as the purposely slowed Cessna responds sluggishly. Steve’s vision remains badly blurred and narrowed by the lightning flash and toxic smoke filling the airplane. He is however able to discern sergeant stripes on the sleeve grasping the control wheel around him. Uncle Ray continues assuring him that they will be out of the severe weather soon as his ghostly hands guide him on the controls. Throughout the other-worldly encounter, Steve is subordinate, but intensely emotional, as he exclaims,
“Ray! Is .. is it really you? How did you know? What’s happening to me, Ray? I can’t see! I can’t breathe!”
“Hold on! You’re going to be fine! Crack a window!” Uncle Ray directs, as Steve’s eyes focus on the U.S. Eighth Air Force patch on Uncle Ray’s left shoulder. Instinctively, Steve fumbles for the tiny handle that positions the side window. As he feels it fill his hand, he forces the tiny window open into the slipstream. Fresh air and deafening engine noise immediately fill the cockpit as his lungs respond to the sudden influx of much needed air. Uncle Ray remains all business, unflappable, and totally unemotional as he helps him gently ease the Cessna back up to 500 feet, where together their hands hold the seaplane level for the next several minutes.
When the Cessna finally exits the hazardous weather, Steve’s vision begins to clear and his eyes begin darting around the cockpit, searching intently for Uncle Ray. To his dismay, he finds himself alone once again in the seaplane, as his gaze finally settles on the flight instruments in front of him and he grasps the control wheel tightly to keep his hands from shaking. He is motionless and speechless for the next several minutes, as the near-death experience and ghostly encounter with his late uncle wash over him.
When he is finally able to collect himself, he closes the side-window and resumes flying the original westerly heading. Minutes later, the Cessna is bathed in bright afternoon sunlight and he instinctively checks to make sure that the explosive drilling pipe remains secure. With his hands still shaking from the adrenaline surge, his destination, Lake Charles, Louisiana begins to appear in the afternoon haze, just beyond the horizon.
By the early Spring of 1996, Steve has realized his goal of becoming a jet pilot, and has risen rapidly through the ranks of a major U.S. airline. At age 29, he is one of the youngest commercial jet airline captains in the country. He and his wife, Kay reside in the Atlanta area, and they have grown accustomed to the erratic nature of Steve’s flight schedule, and his extended time away from home. The perpetual coming and going makes telephone contact a valuable tool, and he is on the phone as usual this morning, checking in with Kay. He is perplexed by the sound in her voice and astounded when she begins to convey the unearthly reason behind it. Kay Lacey is not inclined to exaggerate, embellish, or even tease regarding such matters, and he knows immediately that something is very, very wrong.
“Calm down and just tell me what happened.” he prompts, trying to help his wife regain her composure. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”
“There … there was a man here!” she stammered.
“What man? Where?” he demanded.
“Here! In the house!” she exclaimed.
“Is he gone? Did you call the police?” he suggested forcefully.
After an extended pause, his wife collects herself enough to respond.
“It wasn’t an ordinary intruder. He was just here for a few seconds and then he vanished into thin air right before my eyes.” she said timidly. “He was a ghost, and he was wearing a World War II military flying uniform.”
“Where was he?”
“In front of the portable fan in the living room, the one we leave on for the dogs. He was just standing there in the doorway in front of the fan, smiling at me.”
“I don’t know what to say …” Steve uttered.
“There’s more.” she continued. “You know that picture in your office of your Uncle Ray and his crew?
“Yes.”
“It was one of them.” she said emphatically. “Not your uncle, but one of the other men in his crew. I thought I recognized his face, so I went upstairs to your office and I looked at the picture just to make sure. He’s standing in the back row.”
“Uh-huh.” Steve managed.
“I’m certain it was him.” she declared. “He was here in our home.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No. He just stood in the doorway smiling at me. It was very unnerving.” she insisted.
“I’m sure he doesn’t mean any harm. If he’s one of Uncle Ray’s crew, he has to be a friend.” Steve insisted.
“It’s still unsettling.” she replied, obviously unmoved by his attempt at a positive explanation.
A little over a year later, Steve is at the pinnacle of his airline career. Ghostly interactions with Uncle Ray and other members of his crew have subsided and Steve has become thoroughly engrossed in day to day airline flying. His thoughts this evening are on jet operations as he taxis onto the runway for a west departure. Air traffic is heavy at Boston’s Logan International Airport, and several flights jam the tower frequency with radio transmissions. His flight is given takeoff clearance and begins rolling down the long, westerly runway. The setting sun directly in front of them, masks the developing danger ahead.
Accelerating through 100 knots, two thousand feet prior to a runway intersection, he hears a frantic radio warning and sees a large turboprop aircraft suddenly materialize to his left. The frantic radio warning is from the turboprop, which is in an all out, but obviously futile effort to stop prior to the runway intersection. His own aircraft is too fast to stop, too slow to fly safely, and a collision with the turboprop at the intersection is suddenly imminent. In response, he pulls aggressively on the Boeing’s control column and forces the otherwise ill-fated aircraft into the air, narrowly missing the turboprop as it flashes by beneath him.
The stick-shaker activates immediately, warning him of an impending stall. The sluggish Boeing jet begins wallowing alarmingly from side to side, barely under control. Ahead, the blinding sunset masks the skyscrapers in the downtown Boston area, a mere two miles away. He cannot turn to avoid the buildings and risk stalling the aircraft. They have survived the harrowing near-miss encounter, but are now on the ragged edge of losing total control of the airplane. The intense sunlight prevents him from scanning the flight instruments directly in front of him, and he must steal angled glances at the copilot’s flight instruments, while also searching visually in the sun for the skyscrapers in downtown Boston. The blinding sunlight and impending sense of failure causes tears to flow down his cheeks as he struggles desperately to keep the big jet airborne.
In a familiar refrain throughout much of his life, Uncle Ray suddenly appears. The ghostly apparition is only heard and seen by him, as he continues issuing commands and flying the airplane on the ragged edge of control. Uncle Ray’s sense of humor is a welcome response to their nearly hopeless situation as he very anticlimactically states …
“You do have a way of making me feel needed. May I suggest a shallow turn to the left, Captain?”
The aircraft responds halfheartedly, as Steve begins executing the slow, left turn, with tears still flowing and the stick-shaker continuing unabated. Uncle Ray’s calm demeanor quickly becomes infectious as he continues directing the shallow left turn, assuring Steve that control will soon return.
“Let’s get the gear up!” Uncle Ray directs, followed seconds later by, “okay, you can stop turning now.”
As the wings level, the stick-shaker suddenly ceases, the skyscrapers of downtown Boston are no longer a threat, and the aircraft begins to accelerate normally. Uncle Ray surveys the scene briefly and then calmly asserts, “it looks like everything is u
nder control once again. You know, Steve, I will always be here whenever you need me, especially in an airplane.” he said emphatically, with a customary wry smile, before cryptically adding, “when the time is right however, I will be back to ask for your help on a very, very, important matter.”
Steve is shaken by the experience and utterly speechless as he watches Uncle Ray slowly fade from sight like he had so many times before.
Four months later, Steve is at home in Atlanta, when the first indication that the very important matter Uncle Ray alluded to had actually arrived. The indication comes in the form of an odd query from his wife, Kay, while he is reading the local newspaper. Approaching him late one evening, she asks bluntly, “do you know anyone killed in a fire?”
“Not that I can recall. What’s this all about?”
She replies hesitantly that although she knows it is taboo, she went for a reading the previous day with two highly regarded psychics. Both insisted that someone killed in a fire was trying desperately to communicate with her husband.
“What kind of a fire … a house fire?” he prompted, assuming it was some sort of natural calamity.
“They didn’t say what kind of fire, only that the person trying to communicate with you did not die of the fire, but was surrounded by fire when they died.”
He ponders that revelation for a few moments and then dismisses it with a highly skeptical assessment of the two supposedly gifted psychics.
“I hope you didn’t pay too much for that tidbit of generality.” he asserted, unaware that Uncle Ray and his crew were killed on impact when their bomber plunged directly into the ground amid a tremendous flash fire. Seizing on the query from Kay, he withdraws Ray’s Bible from a nearby drawer, searches for the passage regarding psychics and mediums, and reiterates the Biblical prohibition against such activity. Both of them are unaware at the time that Ray’s Bible only survived the impending fiery crash because it was expelled from the doomed bomber as it was self destructing in mid-air. A philosophical discussion between them ensues, regarding Biblical directives, possible exceptions to Biblical directives, and whether psychic messages received in such a manner have an angelic or potentially satanic origin.
Two weeks later, Captain Steve Lacey is approaching the Bradley International Airport, Windsor-Locks, Connecticut, at night in a rainstorm with strong, gusty winds. In 1945, the Bradley International Airport was the recovery point for all the heavy bombers of the U.S. Eighth Air Force returning from England after World War II. Thousands of homesick, young airmen, including the James Tyree Bomber Crew, were routed through Bradley International Airport.
Using airborne weather radar, he successfully deviates around the more intense rain showers, aligns the instrument landing system for the approach, and begins descending. His attention is suddenly diverted by an affable greeting over his right shoulder from a very familiar voice. After offering his traditional greeting, Uncle Ray continues unabated, stating very matter of fact, “I’ve been trying to tell you that it’s time Steve … time for that seed we planted in you years ago to bear fruit. It’s for all the families. My crew needs your help. Our families need to know what happened to us and why we didn’t land here in 1945. We will help you uncover the truth, if you will just share it with all our families.”
Steve nods silently and repeatedly … his attention divided between Uncle Ray’s words and successfully completing the challenging approach and landing. He battles the fluctuating airspeed and gusty crosswinds all the way down the final approach to a smooth landing on the rain soaked runway. As the aircraft slows, he feels the anti-skid system working against the aircraft’s tendency to hydroplane. When they finally reach taxi speed, he exits the runway and begins taxiing the jetliner to the airport terminal. Moments later, his copilot gestures toward a large hangar and corresponding static display area near the airport boundary.
“That must be an air museum of some kind.” the copilot declared. “That looks like a World War II bomber! You don’t see many of those around any more!”
Steve follows the copilot’s gesture, and notices several young men standing beside a World War II bomber on static display in front of the large hangar. He points them out to the copilot, but none of them are apparently visible to anyone except him.
“You must have better eyes than I do, Skipper.” the copilot suggests as Steve rides the brakes and slows the jet’s taxi speed to a crawl. He then stares in fascination as the large group of men offers a unified salute when his aircraft passes. The wind and rain do not appear to have any effect on them and each man is bathed in an eerie glow with no apparent light source. Peering against the jet’s side-window, he notices that Uncle Ray is now standing among the large group of men and he recalls the picture on Grandma Wilkins wall many years ago, the same picture now hanging in his office at home. Their faces are eerily familiar, and they are all standing directly in front of him, decades later, at Bradley International Airport, Windsor Locks, Connecticut. None of them appear to have aged a day since the James Tyree Bomber Crew photograph was taken, just prior to the start of their combat tour in 1944.
Chapter Three
Quagmire
“Have nothing to do with the works of darkness, but expose them instead.” Ephesians 5:11
Six weeks later, a local resident of Black Hameldon, Moors area, Lancashire, England, is hiking near the crash site of an American World War II bomber. For decades, the Moors area has been a hotbed of ghostly encounters and supernatural activity. Reports of entire villages of ghost like people materializing and disappearing at will are common, and the number of travelers that have disappeared in the Moors area, never to be seen again, is legendary. Ian McShane is undeterred by all the reports of supernatural activity, focused intently on a challenge issued the previous evening by a Scotsman at the Damion Pub. Black Hameldon residents are quite familiar with a long standing dare to anyone willing to hike alone to the local crash site of an American World War II bomber and return with a detailed photograph to prove their heroism and sense of adventure.
Ian McShane has ignored the challenge for years, until last evening, when a patron from Scotland offered fifty pounds British Sterling to anyone that dared produce such a photograph. The Scotsman avowed that World War II crash sites are common in Scotland, but that the Scottish people are not afraid of them. Filled with liquid courage, he taunted everyone in the Damion Pub regarding the Black Hameldon Bomber, igniting a desire in Ian McShane to prove him wrong about English manhood, and penalize him fifty pounds British Sterling in the process.
After a forty-five minute climb up the steep, narrow hiking trail, McShane is nearing the crest of a ridge overlooking the crash site of the Black Hameldon Bomber. Minutes later, when he finally reaches that crest, he gazes down in awe at the shattered remains of an American World War II bomber, glistening in the bright afternoon sunlight directly below him. He grasps his camera and begins photographing the wreckage from the crest of the ridge overlooking the bomber’s debris field. He knows that he must descend the backside of the ridge to get close enough to the actual wreckage to ensure a detailed photograph worthy of fifty pounds British Sterling.
Easing over the crest, he carefully begins the downward trek to the main portion of the bomber’s wreckage. Suddenly, his trek is interrupted by ghostly, unseen hands that begin pushing and shoving him aggressively backwards. He finds himself instantly helpless against the unexpected onslaught and pummeled repeatedly by vicious, hostile strikes that he cannot see or defend against. The demonic aggression rapidly escalates to invisible clinched fists as McShane staggers backwards from the repetitive, powerful blows. Swinging his own fists wildly in a desperate attempt to fend off the savage, other-worldly attack, his efforts only serve to enrage the hellish presence and intensify their violent assault.
Beaten incessantly as he tries to retreat, McShane suddenly loses his balance and falls backwards down the steep hiking trail that he had ascended so purposefully only minutes before. Distance offe
rs no reprieve however, as the unearthly assault continues unabated and he falls repeatedly in stages down the steep incline. Screaming in agony as his lower body impacts the ground at a sharp angle and his right leg fractures, he still finds no respite. Wallowing pitifully on the ground, he feels his shoulders unceremoniously contorted to the point of separation as the vicious assault continues to escalate. Desperate to get away at all cost, McShane falls forcefully down another portion of the steep hiking trail. Each pause in his runaway fall quickly precipitates another sudden onset beating and an encore of extreme physical torment. Eventually, after free falling in stages over 300 feet, his vision blackens and the searing pain in his broken right leg causes him to lose consciousness. Laying motionless beside the Black Hameldon Bomber hiking trail, rescue workers finally locate Ian McShane thirty-six hours later and begin rendering much needed life saving aid to his badly mangled body.
It’s March 1998, and after months of stonewalling by the U.S. Air Force to his request for an uncensored accident report, Steve is getting desperate. Convinced that his effort to uncover the truth enjoys heavenly support, he blatantly ignores Biblical directives against such activity and visits Camp Ellis, at the Illinois Society of Spiritualists and Naturalists. His trip is a deliberately focused attempt to bypass US Government stonewalling and censorship, and to uncover the hidden truth about the Black Hameldon Bomber crash and the James Tyree Crew.
