A True Episode of the Army ’Round-the-World Flight
The constant succession of remarkable distance flights in the last few years provides a great fund of fact and background for true stories that, in their novelty, romance, and thrilling appeal to valorous instincts, must surpass the most imaginative fiction. The brilliant individual achievements of Alcock, Read, Maughan, Rodgers, Byrd, Wilkins, Maitland, Hegen- berger, Nobile, De Pinedo, and Lindbergh, as well as our Army ’round-the-world, South American goodwill, and Navy Alaskan mapping expeditions, would, if written as fiction, do more than credit to Jules Verne or H. G. Wells. It is all too unfortunate that the thrilling accounts of such conquests of the air, the epics of man’s odyssey into the heavens, must, in most cases, be inscribed for posterity in the dry and spiritless phrases of official reports. The most soul inspiring achievements of man’s mind over mundane matter are left to rot in “the files,” like the statue of a great and noble character set in an out-of-the-way corner of a city, where no one can derive pride and inspiration from viewing it.
The Army 'round-the-world flight of 1924 suffered many mechanical mishaps. Tremendous difficulties of navigation and weather combined constantly to thwart the American Magellans of the air. The most careful planning was necessary, not only to insure the progress of the flight, but also the safety of the lives of the pilots and their mechanics. Great bodies of water had to be crossed at • critically dangerous places, and thus the expedition became dependent to some degree upon the United States Navy for protection to its valuable personnel. It is known that the vessels of the Navy, in covering the flight lanes over water, traveled several times the distance that the fliers covered; which, in itself deserves no other merit than close and loyal cooperation for the success of an endeavor of the brother service. Aerial navigation, after all, was the province of the Navy unquestionably when the routes crossed the water. These great birds might get over all right—they might not. With superlative courage and confidence these Army fliers took off to trespass honorably, and with the loyal and whole-hearted support of the Navy, over the domain of the seafaring service. The eagle, though equally effective in the air over land or water, was helpless if forced to light in the seagull’s natural medium. And it is not with any suggestion of jibe at the necessity, but only of pride in the privilege, that we recount that when they did alight on the billows instead of the fields, “the Navy brought ’em back.”
It was the writer’s privilege to be, by a coincidence, in the Gulf of Alaska when the Army- world fliers were negotiating a particularly hazardous leg at the very start of their globe-encircling journey. In practically all other cases where naval vessels covered the sea lanes below the fliers, such presence was ordered by the Navy Department, as in the flight down the Japanese Islands all the way to the Indian Ocean and again in crossing the Atlantic. In the instance to be related, however, the two Navy ships who assisted happened to be near because of a totally unrelated enterprise.
The destroyers Hull, (No. 330), and Carry, (No. 334), were sounding, by means of the remarkable sonic depth finder of Professor Hayes, the ocean floor contour between Seattle and Seward. The run to the vicinity of Seward had been completed at 2:20 p.m. on the afternoon of April 15, 1924, in about latitude 59 degrees 30 minutes north. With sufficient fuel still on board to complete the run back to Seattle, the Hull and Corry turned without going on into Seward and commenced return soundings.
Shortly after 7 p.m., the Corry, on our starboard quarter and about five miles away, was seen to turn quickly and head due west, belching heavy black smoke from both boilers in use. The commanding officer of the Hull, being senior and in command of the sounding expedition, was nonplussed by this unusual maneuver. Twelve knots was the sounding speed, the other ship was required to maintain a definite relative bearing and distance from us, and in the event of missing a sounding or two, due to mechanical difficulties with the apparatus, the ships were supposed to proceed on the course regardless. Here was our consort heading in almost the opposite direction, making, apparently, from the thick black smoke she was spouting, about twenty-five knots and rapidly receding toward the wrong horizon.
It was only a matter of five minutes or so, however, until the mystery was explained. The captain was about to send a radio message asking for an explanation when the radio messenger appeared on the bridge. Peering over the captain’s shoulder with pardonable curiosity, I read a message from the Seward Navy radio station broadcasting to all ships in Alaskan waters the word that Major Martin, the flight commander, in Plane No. 1, the flagship Seattle, was down in the vicinity of Portage Bay, on the Alaskan Peninsula, and had last been seen descending near Cape Igvak. The fateful message had been relayed from Dutch Harbor, where the remaining fliers had arrived safely that afternoon. The Corry, having the radio guard for our detachment at the time, had picked up the message and relayed it to us. True to the breed, she had not waited for an official starter when a race with possible death was on, but had wheeled and sped like a greyhound for its quarry.
“Full right rudder, full speed! Tell the chief engineer I want to see him. Get your course for Cape Igvak.”
I dove for the emergency cabin, found Portage Bay and Cape Igvak after a search of seconds, and laid the course on the chart for Barren Island Pass, the only reliable entrance to Cook Inlet in line with our run. Outside I heard the captain asking the chief, as the latter read the message, if his other two boilers were in good condition.
“Clean and fresh, and raring to go, sir!” answered the chief. "I can have them run down and cut in, in no time.”
Meanwhile we were hot on the trail of the Corry. She showed now, with only light smoke and a foaming white wake, that she had already settled down to a steady high speed. Twenty-five knots was set as our standard speed and this seemed to hold the pacemaker. Our other two boilers were soon lighted off and a message was radioed to the squadron commander and the Navy Department to be given to the anxiously awaiting public, that the Hull and Corry were proceeding at top speed to render assistance to the fallen flagship of the air. Once more, as so often happened in the World War, “a destroyer was proceeding to assist and stand by” a crippled plane or ship.
It was not long before all four boilers were putting their backs into the race, for race it had become. For nearly three years these two destroyers had been running mates on many independent duties, and supporting the fine spirit of cooperation that blessed their efforts, was the fundamentally necessary spirit of rivalry that lent zest and accomplishment to their work. Together they had sounded over thirty thousand square miles off the Pacific Coast; had been three times to Panama with the fleet, on similar duty; had sounded in nasty weather in the Caribbean; had plunged at twenty knots through a norther in the Gulf of Mexico on the way to Vera Cruz, where the cruiser Tacoma had been wrecked in the same gale, while De la Huerta was causing the State Department deep anxiety. Together they had formed the honor escort to President Harding on his Alaskan tour the summer before, through these same waters through which they were now racing on an errand of mercy. Small wonder that the Corry should take a flying start of a few minutes in a three hundred mile race to save the commander of the greatest air expedition the world had yet seen! Small wonder, too, that the Hull should throw its last ounce of pressure in from the full four- boilered engineering plant to beat the Corry there!
The chief engineer came on the bridge, picked up a pair of binoculars and in the slowly fading twilight of the sub-Arctic, scanned the leader in the race.
“This will be good!” he grinned. “They still are using only two boilers, for I can see their stack covers still on. If I don’t make smoke so that they get wise, we’ll pass them before dark.”
Not until we were within a mile of the Carry did they discover that we had raised the ante in the game. We had been nearly astern and in the failing light they had not noticed that the distance had been rapidly cut down. We had been making thirty knots for about an hour! The plant was thoroughly warmed up and the engineers were aroused to the possibilities. Before we passed our pacemaker, be it said to his credit, the stack covers were off, and as he faded astern in the darkness, his other two boilers were panting black smoke in a wrath to be unleashed.
Almost at midnight we rushed into the narrow gap entering Shelikoff Straits from the north. On the left, against the looming black hulk of an island silhouetted in the faint moonlight, blinked the welcome eye of a beacon light, as if in astonishment at such speed through the night, like a surprised street lounger as a reckless car goes careening by. On the right, the towering masses of snow-covered Alaskan peaks, with the Great Taku Glacier gleaming softly white in the moonlight and breathing its cold, damp breath upon us like a great ice box with the door suddenly opened beside us as we sped by. Both sides, menacing and black, receded swiftly as we turned south in Cook Inlet for the clear run down to Cape Igvak, still nearly one hundred and fifty miles away.
Suddenly, from the left, appeared a white light, approaching from the southward of the small island we had just rounded. With remarkable speed it grew clearer. The red light could be seen, then the green. Within a couple of minutes the red light disappeared and there, racing along almost bow to bow with us and only half a mile away, was the Corry! To meet our own stratagem she had eased off to the southward after we had passed her, and by passing south of the islands with all boilers in use, had placed herself alongside by a daring bit of unlighted navigation through an almost uncharted passage, completely countering the run we had made at thirty knots! In one breath we cursed and commended her.
Slowly but surely the other destroyer passed us. We watched her with chagrin, believing confidently, however, that it was only a spurt. When, in half an hour, her stern was undoubtedly clear of our bow by many yards, we could stand it no longer. A messenger clattered down the ladder to the wardroom, where the tired chief was catching forty winks on the side transom. He came up incredulous, having seen the Corry well astern and still on two boilers less than three hours before. He had not seen her approach south of the island.
“Ye gods! I must have lost suction and she’s making better than thirty-one knots,” he groaned. “I’ll dive below and give her a boost.”
And boost he did! In fifteen minutes we were gaining perceptibly. In half an hour we were abreast. The chief appeared on the bridge, grinning.
“The cuss is doing nearly thirty-one, captain. Can I open her up?”
Permission was granted not to fall behind and to stand by to squeeze out the last few turns the engines could make when the captain sent down word. And so we tore through the moonlit waters, down past the steaming Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes, past small glaciers between the smoke- wraithed peaks standing out, white and gigantic in the dim dawn of 3:00 a.m. Just before dawn we were rushing upon a very small steamer standing in the same direction. A radio came, stating that the craft was from Dutch Harbor, Seward bound, had picked up the emergency message and had turned to rush at eight knots to the rescue! In a flash we passed him. The pathetic little tub turned at once and started back on his original journey. He would have arrived there the following evening. We would get there in less than four hours, before the sun of this same day had raised the temperature of the clear bitter night back above freezing. As the speed of the planes was to ours, so was our speed to that of the tiny Alaskan Gulf steamer.
At five o’clock Cape Igvak became definitely visible. Speed had been maintained between thirty and thirty-one knots, depending on the position of our running mate. The captain sent word to the chief to “open her up,” and in a few minutes the Hull had once more jumped into the lead. As the wide expanse of Portage Bay flashed into view, the captain ordered the Corry to proceed south of Cape Igvak and conduct a search. We slowed down, turned into the Bay, and the Corry tore madly past in a burst of belated speed. The chief, of course, did not lose the opportunity to give his worthy opponent a wide wave of his grimy hat and a big grin as they passed.
Portage Bay showed very few soundings on the chart and we proceeded to round the northeast promontory with caution, slowing gradually to five knots. The surrounding country was magnificently mountainous, with black jagged cliffs protruding through the heavy mantle of snow. On the western side, some miles away, the shore rose rocky and abrupt, extending on upward to towering peaks. At one point only was there a break, where a deep valley, the bed of an extinct glacier, wound down to the rocky ledge by the bay.
Slowly we passed on up the bay, sounding as we proceeded, and keeping a sharp lookout for a fallen plane or evidence of one. Arrived in shallow water some two miles off Kanatuck, a tiny village at the head of the bay, we anchored at 6:02 a.m. and prepared to land a searching party. The temperature, with the sun now up, had risen to five degress above freezing. Complete life-saving and salvaging gear, as well as emergency medical equipment, were taken, and the medical officer accompanied us. Hot rations of food and coffee were provided and woolen clothing was not forgotten in case we found them cold and wet, possibly after clinging to a wrecked plane or swimming ashore in the bitter cold water. The boat left the ship at 6:10 a.m. and was beached in a moderate surf, there being no wharf of any kind. The small steamers that unloaded stores here usually moored alongside a large, flat float, on which they deposited their cargo, to be transhipped through the surf by the skillful natives in their canoes. The doctor and I, with hip boots, stepped into the barely freezing water and as we strode eagerly for the pebbly beach, small rollers rose and tumbled at our thighs, promptly filling our boots with numbing cold water, which squashed up to our knees and down with each step. The chilling thought ran through my mind that no man could live long in such water even if he had wreckage to cling to. At this time the fliers had been down nearly eighteen hours, since about 1:30 p.m., the previous day.
We strode quickly past the little turf huts of the Indian natives to the small wooden shack with a faded sign reading, “Post Office and General Store.” Our hammering on the rickety door brought out a big, shaggy bearded white man. He spoke with a Swedish accent, but was an American citizen and the sole white man in the village, although he told us that the Standard Oil Company had drilling operations in progress some miles inland and there were several American engineers there. We plied the postmaster with questions, but he could give us no word. He had, he said, read in the Seward paper that the flight would pass over the vicinity the previous day, and all hands had idled through the day waiting eagerly, as the Indians had never seen the white man’s great mechanical birds and were somewhat incredulous. The flight had not been seen because it was at a fairly low altitude, and the mountains to the east which sheltered Portage Bay blocked their view in that direction. The fliers had, of course, turned south as soon as they had passed over Kodiak Island into the sound, and had headed directly for Dutch Harbor. It seemed logical that Major Martin would, if he could taxi his plane, turn up into the bay and try to make Kanatak. The fact that he had not been seen at all gave affairs a disheartening turn. We inquired about the weather possibilities. “Willi-waws,” the gusty local gales that blew without warning and with freezing violence out of the glacial valleys, might spring up at any time, though appearances were certainly favorable at this time. Such a wind would blow the plane, if afloat, directly out into the sound where it would be at the mercy of subsequent bad weather, always impending. The sky was clear, the sun was slowly warming things up, and only gentle ripples from the normal morning breeze disturbed the surface of the bay. If a real wind sprang up, we were told, the sound became just like the open sea.
With a sinking feeling amidships we rose to bid our sympathetic host good-bye. He came with us down through the little village of a dozen huts, making inquiries of the Indians in mixed tongues on the way. Just before we reached the beach he stopped for further talk with one of those he had spoken to. He brought the latter over to us and with painful embarrassment mixed with childlike pride that he should be the object of our attention, the Indian spoke as follows:
“Big cat, come down, make noise, go like hell!”
Dramatically he pointed to the southeast and motioned with his hand, describing a plane landing and taxiing to the western shore. The postmaster talked with the Indian a minute or two and then explained to us that this man had been fishing in the vicinity of Cape Igvak the day before, at the southern end of the bay, and had undoubtedly seen the plane about an hour or so before high noon. Our informant was unable to give us any further information, the entire proceeding being completely beyond his comprehension. The “big cat” was so called because the Indian recognized the sound of the motor from the caterpillar tractors which the Standard Oil Company had taken through the village up the valley to the oil field; these caterpillar tractors were called “cats” for short by the engineers.
With these few meager facts in our possession, there could be no use in searching the vicinity of the village. We were carried on the Indians’ shoulders out to the canoes and paddled to the float, to which our motor sailing launch had returned. Back on board ship, we announced our cheerless findings and expected to hear that the Corry had found the plane or evidence of it. But there was no word other than that they had landed a searching party. Quickly we heaved in our anchor and stood slowly south, skirting about two miles from the western shore. We had nearly reached the point at which we could turn into the sound when the quartermaster, with his long glass to his eye, shouted, “There she is!” The report was verified by everyone on the bridge with binoculars, though the plane could hardly be seen; the upper and lower wings coincided with the ledge and water lines of the shore beyond and the rugged face of the ledge camouflaged the plane almost into invisibility.
We made a quick turn and steamed toward the object of our search, which could soon be made out quite clearly. Fearing a rock in the poorly charted waters of the bay, the captain anchored well off and ordered the motor sailing launch lowered. With five or six extra men in the boat, we headed close inshore where the plane was riding peacefully at anchor at the foot of the glacial valley before mentioned. As yet we could see no one and the disturbing thought occurred to me that perhaps they had waded or swum ashore in an effort to reach Kanatak, some seven miles or so north. A glance at the snow-clad cliffs and precipitous declivities convinced me they would class such an attempt as foolhardy. Undoubtedly, they would, as Army men adhere in this instance to the old Navy slogan, “Stick to the ship.” When we were about two hundred yards from them, two big burly figures, helmet-clad, stood up in the cockpits and calmly watched us approach. Before I had a chance to express any felicitations whatever. Major Martin called out to me to be very careful in coming close to his pontoons. His first thought even in the happy moment of rescue, in this far removed and desolate spot, was for his ship.
“Sir, I am mighty glad to see you here!” I said warmly, saluting with heartfelt pride.
“Thanks, I’m glad to be here,” he replied laconically but with a wan smile. It instantly occurred to me that perhaps my remark sounded pointed. No doubt he would have preferred to have been at Dutch Harbor with his squadron. But our thoughts had run in channels of wrecked planes, wet and freezing men, miles from help, and possibly worse. This was a great relief and I meant only to express it.
With great care we eased up to the pontoon and took Major Martin into our boat. A signalman informed the ship that both men were all right. A towline was secured to the nose-span of the pontoons and we started slowly back to the ship, Sergeant Harvey steadying the plane. We secured the plane astern and helped our somewhat stiffened guests up the sea-ladder. Before we were on board the anxiously awaiting world had been informed by radio that the flight commander and his assistant were safe.
Followed a warm washing up for both fliers and a tremendous breakfast with many cups of steaming coffee, while the major and the captain discussed plans for rejoining the flight. We were surprised to learn that they had not known exactly where they had landed and that Kanatak was only about seven miles away, as their chart showed no such settlement. The cause of the forced landing was explained to us. A broken connecting rod had shattered the crank case of the engine and most of the lubricating oil was lost. Major Martin was at the controls at the time, attention riveted on his navigation at the turn to the southward, but Sergeant Harvey, experienced and keeneyed mechanic, had instantly noted the dangerous sound and the loss of oil pressure. No time could be lost if a serious accident was to be avoided; they must descend at once. The engine was barely able to taxi them to the anchorage. There they had to watch the rest of the squadron disappear as specks into the south and then compose themselves to—waiting. Nothing could be done. The plane was safer anchored than secured to the rocky shore. The mountains, cold, white, and formidable, did not welcome an attempt to start anywhere for help. There was not even a tree to lend cheer in this rocky, desolate Alaskan wilderness. So far as they knew, there was not a ship nor a man within a couple of hundred miles. They could not even be sure that the other fliers had not seen them descend at once, as the formation had not been a close one. They could only snuggle their warm flying clothes about them closer— and wait—how long?
The mild Alaskan sun waned slowly, disappeared behind the glowering peaks above them and the long chill twilight of the sub- Arctic set in, aggravating the painful measurement of time. When after four hours of interminable darkness and about three hours of tantalizingly slow dawn, two slim gray destroyers came rushing around the point on the east side of the bay, minutes had already begun to stretch themselves into hours. These ships—were they mirage? No ships had been assigned to cover the flight. The American Navy, so far as they knew, was operating some two thousand miles away on the California coast. Did those speeding gray figures know that they were there, alone, crippled? Or were they dashing by on some other mission? The Very’s pistol was fired repeatedly overhead. One ship was seen to slow and turn toward them while the other ripped on by at a speed they had never seen in a ship before. Slowly, the first destroyer rounded up into the bay and—passed on to the northward! No use firing any more shells; their small bursts could not be seen against the camouflage of the mountains behind them. They sat down again in their cockpits—and waited.
Major Martin confessed that he believed at first that the destroyers must be Japanese. He also believed, against all hope, that not having been sighted when the first ship passed them by, they would be missed again when she stood out, if she did stand out. The Hull did, in fact, actually pass slightly beyond the spot before sighting the Seattle.
The plane was towed to Kanatak at once and repairs were undertaken under the most trying circumstances during the bad weather. The Hull and Corry refueled at Seward and proceeded on their assigned sounding duty. On April 21, when half way across the Gulf, the Corry was dispatched by the Navy Department to proceed to Sitka at twenty knots, obtain the spare engine for the Seattle, and deliver it to Dutch Harbor, whence it was taken to Kanatak and the plane again took off.
The crash into a mountain on the Alaskan Peninsula by Major Martin while on his way to join his command at Dutch Harbor, is another story, and far more thrilling. The two stories are linked up by the fact that the writer, by then returned to San Diego, was delegated to call on Mrs. Martin after the major had been lost five days. It was her desire to speak with an officer who had last seen her husband. When all the world had given up hope for the gallant fliers, and even the War Department had begun to consider their chances hopeless, this woman, knowing well the caliber of the man, said simply, but with conviction founded on more than spiritual faith and hope, “He may be hurt, but he will come through yet. If they don’t find him, he will find them.” For days these powerful fighters wandered hungry and cold, lost in the Alaskan wilderness of snow and ice- covered mountains, but finally emerging back into civilization at a little fishing village on the other side of the Peninsula. One American eagle had fallen, but the rest of the flight had gone on, to return soon to American soil, victorious argonauts in the greatest expedition since Magellan.