Mystery in Trib 2 Page 6

  Wish he would get in front of me, Perkins thought. I’d show him what bullet’s are. The six 50’s would have chewed a Zero to shreds in the blink of an eye. Not much more to go to the safety of the clouds.

  Bullet’s again played a tattoo on the A20 above the sound of their own guns. There was a violent explosion in back and red-hot shrapnel sizzled around the interior of the fuselage. Panels of the Plexiglass canopy shattered and glass broke in the instrument panel. Their own guns fell silent. In the midst Perkins felt something snatch at his thick leather glove and nick the back of his hand, causing him to wince and jerk his hand from the yoke. Then mercifully the cloud enveloped them.

  He kept the plane boring down for a thousand feet into the grayness. Now, deprived of outside references, he had to rely entirely on his remaining instruments. Praying there were no mountain peaks in their path he finally coaxed the aircraft straight and level at an indicated 8,000 feet. Aside from the throb of one good engine and the roar of slipstream past ragged holes in the canopy, everything seemed strangely quiet.

  Sweat ran down his back and blood dripped out of his torn glove but he was oblivious to both. He called over the intercom, “How’s everything back there Simms?” He was greeted by silence and for a dreadful moment Perkins thought he might be the only one alive.

  He called again. “What’s the situation back there?”

  “Simms here, sir.” A strained voice over the intercom. “I’m okay except for some cuts. Bleeding like a stuck pig but I can’t tell where from.”

  “Okay, see what you can do. Then give me a report.”

  “Sir.”

  After a couple of minutes, “Sir, I’m okay. I don’t think its my blood.”

  It wasn’t. Simms slid out of his cramped jump-seat harness and commenced a check. A 20mm cannon round had penetrated the fuselage and exploded just aft of the upper turret. There was a large hole blasted in the fuselage. Polaski had been ripped to shreds and his blood was everywhere. The navigator had been dead since the first strafing. He checked below and found Stow slumped in his cramped space. Dead. “It’s just you and me, sir,” Simms reported. “They’re all dead. It’s a terrible mess back here. I can’t believe I’m still alive. Everything is shot to hell.”

  “All dead. Good God.” Perkins choked as bile filled his throat. But he knew he had to stay calm; they weren’t out of danger yet.

  “Okay. I don’t think they’ll come after us as long as we stay in the clouds. See if there’s anything that needs to be done and then help keep a lookout. Four eyes will be better than two.”

  “Right, sir. For what it’s worth I think these guys nailed one of them. Last I saw he seemed to be trailing a lot of smoke.”

  What the hell were those Nips doing over Canada, or was it Alaska? They had probably already passed the border. Did it have something to do with the “special freight” in the bomb bay? Is that why the A20 had been armed, or was this all just a coincidence?

  Five minutes passed during which Perkins tried to figure out the best plan. The choices were not good. They were in a mountainous region, in dense clouds, couldn’t climb higher and, he rapped a fuel gauge with his knuckle, losing fuel at an alarming rate. One way or the other they were going down. They might as well do it in a controlled fashion. Could be lucky enough to break out in clear air and have a shot at landing safely somewhere. Perhaps they could make it to one of the emergency fields or set down near the new highway. Better than running out of fuel and going down like a lead balloon. It would have helped if he knew where they were.

  What about that freight in the bomb racks? If it were released the plane would handle better. The thought had only just crossed his mind when he realized they could not be dropped because the safety pins were in and the lower rack could probably not be accessed with those damned crates strapped in place.

  Simms stuck his head up into the cockpit through the hatch. His borrowed flight jacket was soaked with blood but he still insisted he had only minor scratches. He shouted above the wind noise. “Not much to be done back here, sir. Polaski took the brunt of a cannon shell. Most of the top gun blisters gone and a lot of him with it. Nav took a couple of rounds and the radio equipment is shot all to hell. Not much chance of getting a message out. Don’t know what got Stowe but I checked and he’s dead.

  Déjà vu. Three crew members dead and a shot-up plane. This was turning out to be like that last trip over Germany.

  “Okay. Thanks, Simms. Stay close by but secure yourself. I might need some help here.”

  Simms disappeared for a while and then poked his head back up. “I rounded up a few bits’n pieces of survival gear in case we have to make a quick exit. I guess we never know where we’ll end up.”

  Huh, Perkins grunted half to himself. Then he shouted, “Good thinking. I hope you realize we could run smack into a mountain any second.” He was peering ahead through the moisture-streaked windshield at a wall of grayness that cut visibility to less than 50 yards. Their speed was bordering on 180 miles and hour. If he saw anything it would be far too late to take any evasive action. Still he stared grimly ahead.

  Simms’ voice came over the intercom. “Sir. Can you hear? I’m plugged in down here.”

  “Good. Listen up, I think we have to bite the bullet and go down. We’ll run out of fuel soon and then we’ll have no choice at all. Better to go while we still have a measure of power and control.”

  Simms managed to maintain his composure. “You’re in charge, sir. View’s a bit limited from here. Guess we have no choice?”

  “No choice at all. We haven’t had one of these stay up without fuel yet.” Perkins smiled grimly. “Better hope there’s flat land below. Keep an eye open, we even might consider bailing out if the terrain looks good. Here goes.”

  Bailing out? He had no idea if Simms had any experience with a parachute. But he did seem to be handling the serious situation very calmly.

  With a silent prayer he reached out and eased back on the throttle of their one good engine. The altimeter slowly and inexorably wound down scale. Four hundred feet per minute. Seven thousand, six, five, four thousand. He realized he was holding his breath and made a determined effort to relax. Three thousand.

  The cloud was thinning. Perkins glanced sideways and downward. Could he see the ground? Maybe. He had the impression of something other than cloud below. Yes, there it was. Dimly through the mist he saw land slipping by, marshland, small ponds, a serpentine river fringed by dark trees. Heavy raindrops peppered the windshield. They were beginning to break clear of the cloud base less than a thousand feet above the surface.

  He looked forward. “Damn!” Land reared up abruptly in their path. And there was higher land to the right. To the left was a solid cloud bank. Perkins mind was racing. The land to the right was more distant, perhaps there was room to turn. It would be suicidal to go straight ahead. If he tried to turn too tightly at this speed they would stall in for sure.

  He applied max power to pick up speed. The plane yawed to the left. Not enough rudder to fully compensate for one engine out. The plane shuddered, threatening to stall. God, just what they needed. He struggled to bring the plane to an even keel. Was that the upper outline of the ridge? It was. A treeless mountain ridge, only 300 yards, ahead. They might just make it over the crest. Come on, baby! he almost cried out to the valiant A20. You can do it.

  They were climbing ever so slightly, and might just have made it, had not fate dealt her final hand. Even the one wonderful Wright R-2600-29 engine needed fuel and now there was none to be had. The engine sputtered, ran rough for a couple of seconds, picked up and then coughed to a standstill.

  Perkins heart sank. He knew they couldn’t clear the ridge but he was still willing the plane to try its utmost. It almost made it but a ledge of rock protruded a few feet above the lip of the ridge and that was all it took.

  There was an awful jarring crash as the propeller blades and the bottom of the left engine nacelle impacted the rock ledge. The le
ft wing crumpled. A second later the fuselage and the right nacelle struck the ground. The plane skidded briefly in a shower of rocks and shale, and bounced into the air again, its underside rent asunder. The land fell away very sharply and for a moment they seemed to be flying again. Perkins grasped the yoke and frantically tried to control the plane with every fiber of his body. But it was no use. The plane was mortally crippled, its aerodynamics spoiled, airspeed was insufficient and gravity was taking over.

  Through the rain and mist the wounded A20 nosed gracefully over into a near-vertical, spiral dive toward the marsh a thousand feet below. Perkins and Simms had only a few seconds to contemplate their fate before the plunging aircraft joined with the earth.

  They must have sensed it was the end. There were no screams. They simply clung desperately to whatever was at hand. What went through their minds—perhaps a silent prayer—in those last seconds before a final blackness claimed them?

  The blunt nose touched first, cleaving into the rain-pocked surface of a beaver pond. At 280 miles an hour it took only milliseconds for the rest of the plane to follow. Nose section, midsection, wings, engines and tail section. Lighter fabrications crumpled, inertia drove heavier pieces downward, smashing down, driving and dragging everything and everyone into the yielding peat of the swamp.

  Nameless, blue painted containers in the bomb racks contributed to the inertia. Equally nameless blue packing cases tore loose and hurled downward into the wreckage of the cockpit. The tail section crumpled down atop everything else.

  A huge wave radiated outward from the point of impact. Water, peat moss and huge slabs of floating marsh grass were thrown outward and a mighty shock wave radiated through the entire swamp. Then the water, mud and the loosened mats of grass surged inward to form a geyser shooting a hundred feet into the air. Once again gravity played a role. Everything collapsed back to ground zero, covering the place where the aircraft was already entombed.

  Bubbles fizzed to the surface. An oily film formed. There was no explosion, no fire, and barely a scar on the surface of the swamp. Already the churning muddy water was settling down and the loosened mats of marsh grass floated to cover the crash site. In just a few seconds the beautiful A20H, its passengers and mysterious cargo had disappeared almost without trace. Swallowed completely by the marsh.

  Two hundred yards away, a beaver family felt the massive impact. Their domed lodge trembled and seconds later a plane-made tsunami caused a momentary rise of water level. Water sloshed over the long curving dam the beavers had constructed and laboriously extended year by year. This was their home. They alone were responsible for the acres of water held captive. Water which kept the marsh healthy and fertile and providing sustenance for themselves and other wildlife.

  Alarmed, the industrious beavers set out via the underwater entrance and swam the length of the precious dam to check for damage. A little cosmetic work here and there and the dam was pronounced okay. Of plane crashes they knew nothing. There had been some event that threatened the dam. However, their pond and the marsh seemed secure so they returned to the lodge. Silence returned to the remote valley.

  * * *

  Forty miles away Shinichi Oda lightened his plane by releasing his two bombs. His plane was already in the clouds and losing altitude rapidly. Several of the bullet’s from the American plane had found a target and his engine had lost its oil pressure. In only a few minutes the engine seized and left him in command of a heavy glider. Worse still he was injured. He had felt a tremendous blow on his left side and could feel warm sticky blood oozing from a wound.

  Sliding silently through grayness he fought the feeling of disorientation and struggled to maintain control of his craft. It suddenly registered with him how far he was from home. Even if he survived a crash landing, how on earth would he ever make it back to his homeland? He pushed away both thoughts of home and pain. There were more immediate concerns.

  Anxiously he peered around through the grayness. Were there fearsome glaciers below or a mountainside waiting ahead to claim him? What fate was out there?

  His plane broke out of the clouds so suddenly it took him by surprise. Treetops only a hundred meters below. The remnants of fall colors evident. To the right a winding stream. To his utter relief, no sign of those wicked glaciers. Quite pretty, he thought.

  Then he remembered he had to land his powerless machine. He could hardy believe his eyes. Miraculously there was a road at two o’clock. A straight cut through the boreal forest. It was almost as if he was turning for final approach to a prepared runway. The only problem was that he had no power and he quickly realized the Zero would not glide even that short distance.

  He had no time to really prepare for the inevitable crash landing. He just tried to land as if there was a carrier deck, pulling back on the stick, slowing the plane and flaring to keep the nose up. The airplane scythed into the treetops, clipping off the smaller tips—small trees growing densely close together then, as the speed rapidly decayed, it stalled in.

  The Zero stayed upright, as it belly-flopped, smashing through the trees. It came to a screeching, jarring halt, battered but pretty much intact, after perhaps a hundred meters. Fortunately there was no explosion or fire. Perhaps all the fuel had leaked out during the descent.

  Shinichi was hurled forward against the restraining harness. Involuntarily he screamed as pain stabbed through his wounded side. The small yielding trees, however, slowed the plane quite effectively and softened the impact. Dimly through a fog of pain he realized he was alive.

  He slid the canopy rearward and sat quietly to gather his wits. He doubted anyone had seen his plane as it descended silently. There had been no engine noise and only a very brief time in clear air. Listening he found all was still and eerily quiet. Drained of all energy he let his head fall back and breathed in the cool fresh air.

  After a few minutes he unbuckled his harness and prepared to climb out. Yokoy! (Damn) He had almost forgotten about the wound on his side, he must already have lost a lot of blood; the left side of his jacket and his pants were soaked. He felt weak and it was as much as he could do to scramble onto the wing. The effort left him shaking and dizzy.

  He sat there and waited. The cool air helped and after a few minutes’ rest he checked his wound. Painfully he eased his jacket off and opened his shirt. A bullet had cleaved an angry path across his rib cage and at least a couple of bones were shattered. He had no medical supplies so he gingerly wadded his white silk scarf against the wound, buttoned his shirt around it and with difficulty replaced his jacket. Nothing much more could be done.

  Carefully and painfully he gathered a few belongings from the plane. A package with a little rice and bean paste, half a bottle of water and his 9mm service pistol. He had a knife sheathed to his calf. It was next to nothing in the way of survival gear. The Japanese Navy didn’t expect, or prepare, pilots to survive a crash on land. Much less a crash in the wilderness expanse of Alaska.

  He realized there was no point in staying with the shattered and useless plane. He noted the bullet holes and oil streaks. It had been so vulnerable to a few bullets he shook his head in disbelief. Then, without a backward glance, he floundered painfully through the swampy ground and wet trees in the direction in which he thought the road lay.

  * * *

  Within hours it was clear that the Douglas A20 was missing. A search commenced. However, the weather was not favorable. Cloud blanketed the area between Whitehorse and Central Alaska for five days. This was the edge of winter. Snow fell on the higher land. It was some time before any aircraft passed even close to the crash site. Even if they had passed right over the marsh, where the plane and crew were entombed, it is unlikely anything untoward would have been noticed.

  On the first clear day after the incident a flight of eighteen A20’s passed close by in loose formation en route to Fairbanks. A flight of twelve Bell Air-Cobras, led by a C47 mother ship, flew over two days later. They, of course, saw nothing either.

 
Back at Gore Field, Roberts eventually had the unpleasant task of contacting the families of the crew to inform them of their loved ones’ disappearance. Initially there was some hope of finding survivors but that faded as time passed and the plane was not located. Roberts was perturbed by a seemingly abrupt lack of interest by his superiors. Surely they understood he had lost four of his best men. Plus there was the passenger. His attempts at enquiries were greeted by a disturbing silence for the most part. Eventually the names of the crew joined the long list of wartime missing.

  The Japanese carrier recovered only four of its five aircraft, waited an hour, then abandoned station and steamed south with its escort out of the Gulf of Alaska and into the Pacific. Two weeks after this futile effort she was sunk near the Solomon Islands. Japanese warships would never again get so close to the North American continent during wartime.

  The mystery deepened when, three weeks later, an Al-Can highway survey crew discovered a Japanese A2M Zero crashed in a forested area six miles from the Alaska Canada border. There were bullet holes. There was blood in the cockpit but no sign of the pilot. Military personnel arrived on the scene and searched the immediate area. They found nothing. Within a week the plane was dismantled, wrapped with tarps and carted away along the new highway.

  Rumors abounded, but the military put a tight lid on any factual information. Reports of two loud explosions. Bombs? Of course not. That must have been blasting for the Al-Can highway improvements. There were at last some successes to report in the Pacific. The last thing the American public needed was the chilling news that Japanese aircraft had brazenly penetrated mainland Alaska.

  Chapter Seven

  On The Claim

  Break time,” Hagen shouted above the raucous beat of the engine driving the water pump. “We’re gonna have to clean up this sluice.”

  I quit swinging the heavy pickax and propped it against the side of the excavation. The gravel and black sand were solidly compacted and it was not an easy task loosening it so it could be shoveled into the wheelbarrow and then carted 30 feet to the sluice.