The Last Flight of the Blue Goose
by
Jacques Evans
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Synopsis
In 1942 the Blue Goose, a B-24 bomber, disappeared during a routine test flight from an airbase in Florida. After an intensive search, no trace of the plane or crew was ever found. Thirty years later, the remains of the copilot were discovered on a remote beach in northern Brazil---a bizarre Nazi plot is uncovered and the mystery surrounding the disappearance of the Blue Goose is finally solved.
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For the over 88,000 American soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines listed as 'Missing in Action' (MIA) from 1941 to the present.
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2003 by Jacques Evans
All rights reserved.
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Fraser's Run
Mizrahi's Prison
South of Cayenne
Kuchma's Dictum
Flight to Dungavel
The Betty G's Gold
The Mannerheim Line
The Czar's Last Soldier
Last Bridge to Baghdad
Von Weizsacker's Diary
The Last Flight of the Blue Goose
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This book is for personal use only. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior written consent of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a newspaper, magazine or journal article.
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This is a work of fiction. All similarities between characters and persons living or dead are purely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1 ~ Florida, California, 1972
Chapter 2 ~ Nebraska, December 1972 - January 1973
Chapter 4 ~ Florida, Brazil, 1973
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Prologue ~ Fort Myers Army Air Base, January 1942
First Lieutenant Carlson's khaki shirt stuck to his skin like glue. The noonday Florida sun beat down on the control tower's corrugated metal roof. Fortunately, all sides of the platform atop the twenty-foot high wooden tower were open. Occasionally, a light breeze filtered through. Carlson leaned over the platform guardrail and watched McCormick, his radio operator, fill their canteens from a Lister bag located in the middle of a line of tents behind the control tower.
A dozen B-24s were parked in a line alongside the single runway in front of the tower. In a wooded maintenance area, at the end of the flight line, stood a lone B-24. Carlson watched Army Air Corps mechanics install the cowling on the B-24's number three engine then push their spindly, rectangular, work stands aside. A mechanic removed the rear chocks then kicked the front chocks firmly against the tires. Another mechanic pushed a two-wheeled fire extinguisher into position beside the number three engine. Two other mechanics entered the aircraft through the open bomb bay doors. In a few minutes, the auxiliary power unit then the number three engine roared to life. Painted on the side of the dune colored aircraft was the name Blue Goose.
Private First Class McCormick climbed the control tower steps. He handed the lieutenant a canteen. After a long drink Carlson said, "Tastes like ten-year-old, chlorinated, horse piss."
"Lieutenant you won't be able to get it up for a month. The mess sergeant has orders to load the coffee with saltpeter. Since nobody will drink it, he's putting saltpeter in the water."
The ring of the field phone was barely heard above the sound of the B-24's engine. McCormick took the handset from the canvas carrying case, gave his rank and last name, then listened attentively. He replied, "Yes, sir," then stowed the handset. "Lieutenant, Operations says they want to test fly 009 at 1400 hours."
"Great! That should end our week in the tower. Tomorrow, some other flight crew gets stuck with this shit detail."
For the next few hours, Carlson and McCormick were occupied with three B-25s from Eglin Field that shot take-offs and landings. "I wonder why they're practicing short field take-offs here?" McCormick asked.
"Maybe there's too much traffic at Eglin."
After the B-25s departed, Operations notified Carlson that 009 filed a local clearance for a one-hour test flight. Carlson responded affirmatively to the Blue Goose's request for taxi clearance. A few minutes later, a request for take-off clearance came over the loud speaker. Carlson checked the area, picked up the microphone, pressed the transmit button then replied, "009, you're cleared for take-off."
"Roger, 009's rolling," was the reply.
Carlson removed his clipboard from a nail. He penciled in the entries, marked the time as 1406 hours, and then initialed the activity log. At 1500 hours, Carlson scanned the sky for the Blue Goose. He spotted a few birds---there were no aircraft in sight. He ordered McCormick to contact the Blue Goose. At least two dozen times McCormick transmitted, "009, this is Fort Myers tower. Over." There was no response. At 1510 hours, Carlson turned the crank of the field telephone and notified Base Operations.
Inside the Operations tent, Captain Murray used the field telephone to notify Lieutenant Colonel McCann, Commanding Officer of the 343rd Bombardment Squadron and acting CO of the newly formed 98th Bombardment Group. McCann jumped into a Jeep parked outside the headquarters tent then drove along a dirt road to Base Operations.
Murray handed the colonel 009's clearance. McCann looked over the flight clearance, noted the names of the crew, estimated time of arrival and fuel load. "They couldn't have strayed far from the field. All they had to do was checkout one engine, parallel the generators and swing the compass."
"They had a full fuel load. Maybe they headed back to Shreveport for a night on the town," suggested Murray.
McCann winced, "I know those guys, they're not screw-ups. Get two planes in the air and have them set up a search pattern for a 200 mile radius. Have one check south, toward the Everglades, and the other to the north. When it gets too dark to search, they can return. Notify the crew in the tower the field will stay open until the last ship lands and they're not to leave their post until I give the word."
Carlson cleared both B-24s for take-off then watched the Liberators climb to cruise altitude. In a clearing in front of the headquarters tent, a bugler blew mess call. The bugler repeated the call on each cardinal heading.
Carlson watched as soldiers, carrying mess kits, ambled toward and formed a single line alongside the field kitchen. After the troops were served, they either sat on the ground or ate standing up with their mess kits resting on a forty-foot flatbed trailer parked nearby. Their supper table was attached to a C-2 wrecker; a crash truck equipped with a large crane. Two large galvanized garbage cans, filled with boiling water, were placed over a carefully laid fire pit. An empty garbage can was placed ahead of the fire pit. After eating, each soldier dumped any remaining scraps into the garbage can then scrubbed his mess kit, utensils and canteen cup in the first can over the fire pit. In the last GI can on the fire pit, the soldiers dipped their mess gear into the boiling water.
McCann listened intently as the search crews were debriefed. Both crews reported negative results. The crews were ordered to get off the ground at first light and try again. McCann told Murray to notify Air Corps Headquarters, at Wright Field, that an aircraft was missing.
For the next two weeks, aircraft from Fort Myers, Eglin and MacDill searched for the Blue Goose. No debris or clues regarding the disappearance of the Liberator ever surfaced.
Captain Murray completed the accident report. He attached true copies of the clearance and tower log plus statements from Carlson, McCormick, the 38th Material Squadron's engine change crew and the inspector who released the aircraft for flight.
Instead of an expected promotion, McCann was relieved and reassigned to England. He wrote personal letters to the next of kin, turned over command to his replacement, a full colonel, then cleared the base.
In April 1942, the B-25s that practiced landings at Fort Myers were part of Jimmy Doolittle's group that bombed Tokyo. Three months later, the newly formed 98th Bombardment Group went on to Palestine then Egypt, Libya, Tunisia and Italy. In time, the flight of the Blue Goose faded from memory.
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Chapter 1 ~ Florida, California, 1972
Traffic was at a standstill, roads were crammed with parked cars, boats lined the river and jockeyed for a better viewing position. At Kennedy Space Center, the viewing stand was packed with VIPs and anyone else lucky enough to get a pass. As Apollo 17 rose from the launch pad, the roar of the first stage was heard across the state of Florida and on television sets around the world. Millions of eyes followed the exhaust plume as it moved skyward.
Before lift-off, a hold was declared at T minus 2 minutes and 47 seconds. A computer failed to send the command to pressurize the liquid oxygen (LOX) tank in the third stage (S4B) of the Saturn 5. From his console in the firing room, an engineer sent a signal to override the computer and pressurize the S4B LOX tank. But the computer logic did not accept the console command and returned a signal that the S4B was not ready for launch. If the count continued, the gantry swing arms would not retract and the automatic launch sequencer would stop the count at T minus 30 seconds. Once the problem was pinpointed, engineers bypassed the faulty logic circuit. By then it was December 7, thirty-one years after Pearl Harbor.
At 12:33 a.m. EST, following a 2 hour and 40 minute delay, Apollo 17 was launched. Florida residents could see the Saturn 5 engine's exhaust plume from a distance of 250 miles. The command module America and the lunar module Challenger were launched shortly after midnight. It was the first night launch and the last flight of the Apollo program.
The exhaust plume gradually moved out of sight. My job at the Cape was finished and the next few weeks on the job would be my last. Everyone who worked at the Cape found it hard to accept the fact that the Apollo program was coming to an end. The week before, the company gave notice that lay-offs would start immediately after the Apollo 17 splashdown. All employee names were to be placed in a large fish bowl. The first 100 names drawn would be laid off in a week, the next 100 in two weeks and so on until we were all gone. Unlike a lottery, it was something you weren't keen on winning.
To soften the blow, the drawing was scheduled to be held at our company Apollo 17 splashdown party. Splashdown parties are a ritual at the Cape. Outsiders are seldom invited. When they are, they're usually from NASA or some other aerospace company. Anything can happen---and usually does. Splashdown parties are the time to let your hair down after working twelve to sixteen hour days to get the bird off the pad.
As Apollo 17 faded from view, I headed for the parking lot, started my car then joined the stream of traffic heading for Cocoa Beach. When I got to the apartment I share with another engineer, I set the alarm and slept for a few hours. After the alarm went off, I shaved, showered, drove back to the Cape and ate breakfast at the NASA Headquarters cafeteria next door to the Manned Spacecraft Operations Building.
The large bullpen I work in is lined with desks and drawing boards. Sitting like a teacher at the front of the room, our lone secretary tries to juggle requests from the entire twenty-two-man group. Besides fending off potential beaux she has to type, keep track of time cards and handle administrative minutiae. To make things worse our boss, the chief engineer, sits in a cubicle across the hall and doesn't have a secretary. Our secretary has to trot back and forth to answer the chief's phone. She's the only person in the group who's looking forward to getting laid off.
During the Apollo mission itself, the controllers at Houston take over. There wasn't much for us to do at the Cape except monitor the mission and our systems. We sat around and followed the mission on television screens. It was a good time to prepare resumes and catch up on our reading. Some of our more innovative chaps composed and circulated bogus company memos. One classic by an anonymous author, a well-known senior engineer, read:
Subject: Reduction-in-Force
To: All Engineering Personnel
From: Director of Personnel
As a result of a declining workload management must, of necessity, take steps to reduce the engineering work force. A Reduction-in-Force (RIF) plan has been developed that appears to be the most equitable under the circumstances. Under the RIF plan, only the most senior engineers will be released; thus, the company will retain the services of all junior engineers. This action will place the company in a better industry-wide competitive position. Therefore, a program to phase out senior engineers fifteen (15) to forty-five (45) days after the Apollo 17 splashdown will be placed into effect immediately.
The program shall be known as, "Release Aged Personnel Early (RAPE)." Employees who have been RAPED will be given the opportunity to transfer into other divisions of the company. While they are being RAPED, they may request a review to ascertain if their technical expertise is transferable. This phase of the operation shall be called, "Survey of Capabilities of Released Engineering Workforce (SCREW)."
All engineers who have been RAPED and SCREWED may also apply for a final review fifteen (15) days after release. This phase of the program shall be called, "Study by Higher Authority Following Termination (SHAFT)."
Corporate policy dictates that engineers may be RAPED once and SCREWED twice. They may get the SHAFT as many times as management deems appropriate.
cc: All Engineering Branches
I wrote a paragraph for my resume, cleaned out one of my desk drawers then looked for something else to do. Beneath a conference table, beside the secretary's desk, sat a pile of newspapers. We had employees from all over the country. Many of them had subscriptions to their hometown papers. If you subscribed to a hometown paper, when you finished reading it you tossed it on the stack. Most were weeklies. Usually, we read them at lunchtime. They provided a lot of laughs and sometimes furnished raw material for some good-natured ribbing. As I don't write well enough to produce top-notch bogus memos, I grabbed a handful of hometown papers. In a couple, there were articles about 4H clubs and other local stuff. Then, in a Nebraska weekly paper, I ran across an article that grabbed my attention---it read:
WORLD WAR II AIRMAN BURIED AFTER 30 YEARS
by Melissa Jackson
Standard Staff Writer
For 30 years, the family of a World War II veteran who was reported missing and presumed dead never knew where his body was located. On Friday, Tech. Sgt. Gerald R. Schaffer was finally laid to rest at Ft. Leavenworth's National Cemetery. His remains were discovered by a Brazilian surveying team on a remote beach in northeastern Brazil.
Schaffer, the copilot, and two other men aboard the B-24 were listed as missing when their aircraft failed to return from a routine flight in January 1942. Schaffer was one of the few enlisted pilots on duty with the US Army Air Corps at the time. Schaffer's remains were interred in the military cemetery with an honor guard and a 21-gun salute.
"After all these years we were finally able to bury him. My only wish is that my parents were here," said George Schaffer of Oxford, Nebraska, Sgt. Schaffer's sole surviving brother.
According to military authorities, approximately 78,000 American military personnel are still listed as missing in action from World War II. Pentagon officials say it is rare to find the remains of a missing serviceman so long after World War II.
I knew little about my father, William Canada. He was born in 1910 and was presumed dead in January 1942; at the time, I was two years old. I knew he liked to hunt, was a regular army first lieutenant, and was officially listed as missing and presumed dead in a plane crash near Fort Myers, Florida. My mother said I looked just like him. His pictures showed he had dark hair and was about six inches taller than my mother. That put him close to my height, just under six feet. While he wasn't particularly handsome, he did have a kind of rugged, nice guy look. A War Department telegram and several old letters my mother kept indicated that the army never found the plane or bodies of the crew.
As a boy, I read the letters many times. One that really caught my attention was signed by a Lieutenant Colonel William G. McCann. His letter was engraved in my memory as were the names of the engineer, Sergeant Bataglio, and the copilot, Sergeant Schaffer. Although I never mentioned it to my mother, as a boy I played imaginary games in which they all took part. Since I was almost out of a job, didn't have a wife to support and had a pot of severance pay coming, I decided to take the time and find out what I could about my father's death.
After I compiled a list of questions to ask George Schaffer, I grabbed the telephone and dialed information knowing, of course, that the company frowned on long distance personal calls. A young boy answered the phone. He told me his father would be back in about an hour. I left my name and said I'd call back later. My next call was to the reporter under whose byline the newspaper article appeared. When she got on the line, I expected to hear a mid-western twang; instead, I heard a Southern accent. I introduced myself and explained my interest in the Schaffer article. "How did you get the story?" I asked.
"There are very few secrets in a town this size," she replied.
When I asked a few questions, it was apparent that she had no information beyond what appeared in the article. "I'll be in Nebraska in a few weeks," I told her, "I'd like to stop by, if you don't mind."
She said she wouldn't mind and asked me to repeat my name. "Caisson Canada," I replied.
After I reached George Schaffer he had some questions of his own. When I went through my list and got to the 'How did your brother get to Brazil?' question, Schaffer replied, "I know they took off from Fort Myers on a local flight. My guess is they ditched the plane, got into life rafts and eventually wound up in Brazil. They might have been picked up by a ship that sank off the coast of Brazil."
"Sounds reasonable." I mentioned I'd be in Nebraska in a few weeks and asked if he would mind if I stopped by.
"Great!" he answered, "Let me know when you're in town."
After some mulling, I decided to call the 98th Bombardment Group to see if they could help me locate Colonel McCann. While pondering the question of where the 98th Bomb Group was stationed, I had a flash of genius. About two weeks ago at the Mousetrap, a local tavern, I ran into our secretary accompanied by a captain from Patrick Air Force Base. We were introduced; I remembered his face but couldn't dredge up his name. One of my boss' favorite sayings was, 'Don't dip your pen in the company inkwell.' None of the engineers took him seriously but our attractive secretary did. She refused to date anyone in the group. After bribing our secretary with a cup of coffee and a Danish, she gave me the captain's name and phone number.
I placed a call to the airbase and explained the situation to the captain. He didn't sound enthusiastic and vaguely remembered meeting me at the Mousetrap. Apparently, I hadn't made a lasting impression. To get rid of me, he gave me the name and number of an air force administrative officer who worked across the causeway at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station. I told our secretary her boyfriend was a real charmer. She said, "He isn't my boyfriend. I only went out with him once and don't intend to go out with him again."
"They're all alike, only after one thing," I joshed.
"You ought to know. From what I hear you've propositioned every woman in the building and always struck out."
"You're just saying that because you're jealous."
"Canada, get your butt out of here. I've got to do the paperwork so they can fire the whole bunch of you."
Actually my batting average wasn't all that bad. I offered her a free supper along with some fatherly advice but she asked for a rain check. I placed a call to the officer at Cape Canaveral who turned out to be a female administrative officer. I explained how I'd gotten her name and told her what I needed to know. From her tone, I knew it would require a quid pro quo. After I suggested supper, if she could get results, she agreed to look into the matter.
She called back an hour later. Air force historians at Maxwell Air Force Base, Alabama told her that the 98th was deactivated in November 1945, reactivated in 1947, and permanently deactivated in June 1952. When I asked if they had any records available, she said they did but many were still classified. When I reminded her those weren't results but excuses, she said she needed more information. I gave her the only facts I had on McCann. He was regular army and may have resigned, died or retired. She asked for his social security number. I told her that would make it too easy; anyway, they assigned serial numbers in those days and didn't use social security numbers. Being a wise-ass she said, "If he's retired, his social security number would be used for payroll purposes and I could find him with our computer system."
I suggested Bernard's Surf for supper. She agreed---it turned out her parents lived in Cocoa Beach. She set the time and said she'd meet me at the restaurant. When I asked how I could recognize her she said, "I'll be in uniform. Bring along a copy of that newspaper article, I'd like to read it."
It would make a great story to say she was a raving beauty---but that wasn't the case. Lieutenant Joanne Peterson wore no makeup, had horn-rimmed glasses, and tied her hair in a bun. She was young, pleasant and had a better than average figure. She liked seafood. We waded through shrimp cocktails, steamers, clam chowder and seafood platters. I asked if she had any information. Before she answered, she had me repeat the story and produce a copy of the Oxford Standard article. She read it, handed it back, then said, "I've located a retired Lieutenant General William G. McCann. His mailing address is Orlando. The only other information I have is that he retired in 1960 with over thirty years of service."
I could have kissed her; instead, I asked if she would like to attend a splashdown party. She thought it over for a minute then accepted. I gave her the tentative date, December 19, and then said, "You can't wear your uniform."
The next morning I called my office, told them I wouldn't be in, then drove the forty miles to Orlando. At a row of phone booths, in a shopping center along Colonial Drive, I pulled in and parked. A dozen or more McCanns were listed in the phone book but only one William G. I dialed the number. A woman answered. I asked for the general. She said he wasn't in, identified herself as his wife, and asked if she could help. I explained the reason for my call. She said the general was out of town on business and would not be back until the following week.
Before driving back to Cocoa Beach, I decided to look around Orlando. I liked what I saw. Maybe I'd try to find a job in the area. I filled my gas tank and asked the attendant where Disney World was being built. He gave me directions and I spent the next few hours driving around. After lunch, I drove back to my apartment.
The next few days I updated my resume, cleaned out my desk, and generally got ready to abandon ship. On December 11, Navy Captain Gene Cernan's transmission, "Okay Houston, the Challenger has landed," came over the TV monitor. I watched them come down within 600 feet of Taurus Littrow, the preselected landing site. After Cernan and Schmitt rested for a few hours, they stepped onto the surface of the moon and initiated three days of lunar exploration.
The first Extraterrestrial Vehicular Activity (EVA), a one-mile traverse to the vicinity of a crater called Steno, was made with the Lunar Rover. It lasted over seven hours. During the traverse, the Rover lost its right rear fender and created a huge dust shower. At Houston, a fix was improvised, using lunar surface maps. The fix, or 'kluge' as we called it was demonstrated on a Lunar Rover mock-up. On December 12, Cernan and Schmitt attached the 'kluged' fender to the Rover.
On the second traverse, the 'kluge' worked well. At its furthest point, the Rover was about three miles from the Lunar Module (LM). During this traverse, orange soil was found on the moon. Orange soil signified the probability of recent volcanic activity. If this was the case, theories on the moon's evolution would have to be revised. The second EVA set a record: over seven and one half hours. Since in an emergency, the astronauts would have to return to the LM on foot, the times and distances of the traverses were constrained by the capacity of the man-portable oxygen supply.
The third and final traverse was made on December 13. At its furthermost point, the Rover was about two miles from the LM. By then, even the 'kluged' fender was worn out. Project Apollo ended on December 19. Splashdown occurred in the Pacific Ocean southeast of Samoa. Apollo 17 brought back 242 pounds of lunar material that included rocks, core samples, clumps of soil, a deep drill sample and several boulder chips.
After splashdown, I called the female administrative officer, asked how soon she could get ready, got her address then headed for the parking lot. When I got to my apartment, I took off the short-sleeved shirt and tie that most of us wear as kind of a uniform, turned on the radio, drank some orange juice, shaved then showered. I jumped into a pair of khaki slacks, pulled on a white, knit sport shirt then drove to the address I'd been given. It turned out to be a well-kept, modestly sized house with a large lawn. It sat alongside one of Cocoa Beach's man-made canals. On a small dock behind the house, I spotted a sailboat. As I started up the walk the door opened and, like Cinderella, First Lieutenant Joanne Peterson turned into a princess. The uniform, glasses and bun were gone. From her smile, I got the idea she knew what I was thinking.
When we arrived at the splashdown party, Joanne was surprised to learn that the company rented an entire beachfront motel. All of the rooms, restaurant, pool, both bars and the stretch of sandy beach were ours for the day. The rooms were occupied by company executives and their wives who flew in from the main plant in the northeast.
The company was founded in a garage many years before I was born. It was said that the present chairman of the board, though he was an engineer when he was hired, started out pushing a broom across the shop floor. I had the feeling that a lot of us would be on the end of a broom after getting laid off. In 1972, the nation had too many engineers.
Crowds were gathered on the beach, around the pool and on the patio that extended the entire length of the motel. The patio fronted the beach. A small dance floor was carved out of the north end of the patio. We heard a band playing and headed in the general direction. Before we got very far, some fellows in my group dragged us to a couple of large tables that had been pushed together. They seated Joanne near my boss. I had to fend for myself and found a place between our secretary and the boss' wife. After swapping war stories, listening to a dozen speeches, eating, drinking and dancing with lots of women I felt great until the lay-off drawing began.
I rose from the table, cut in on the guy dancing with Joanne, took her hand then led her toward the beach. We sat on the sand. With a group of others, we watched as a huge fish tank was filled with hundreds of names. The vice president in charge said that a volunteer from the audience would draw twenty-five names. After all twenty-five were drawn, the names would be announced over the loud speaker. The process would be repeated until all names were drawn. The volunteer turned out to be a perky, tan, voluptuous blond from the front office. She wore a tight white blouse, unbuttoned one button too many, and a yellow micro-mini skirt.
As she drew the names, the audience alternately cheered and booed. I watched her movements. They were completely unfettered---which accounted for the cheers. Mid-way through the first reading, I heard my name called. After the first twenty-five names were read, there were more boos until the next twenty-five names were announced. Again, during the drawing, the volunteer was cheered and booed. After the axe fell on the last group, the VP made a short speech; afterward, the band began to play. I had to hand it to the company; whatever they did, they did with style. I was going to miss the company and the guys from my old group.
Joanne and I danced, mingled with the crowd, then strolled along the beach for about an hour. While we were at the water's edge, I noticed that the fish tank volunteer was skinny-dipping along with several others. I glanced at Joanne. By her look, I could tell this was conduct unbecoming to an officer. In the wee hours, we left with some others for a popular hangout called the Mousetrap. When we got there, the crowd had thinned out. After one drink and some chitchat, I drove Joanne home. She gave me a peck on the cheek, got out of the car and headed up the walk.
During my last week on the job, I made an appointment with General McCann, attended several 'going away' parties, including my own, collected my severance pay then turned in my badge. That Saturday, I drove to Orlando to keep my one o'clock appointment with the general. I parked in the curved driveway of a large, ranch-style house beside a lake.
When the door opened, I was greeted by a man an inch or two shorter than I am. He was between sixty and seventy years of age, of medium build, with a shock of white hair. After I gave my name, he said he'd known my mother and father when they were stationed at Barksdale Field. Before meeting the general, I expected him to be a doddering old codger. He spoke slowly and hadn't said much during our phone conversation. I couldn't have been more wrong.
The general's wife brought in a coffee tray loaded with goodies then left. As soon as she left, the general wanted to know how my mother and I had fared in the years following the loss my father. Only when I described my mother's second marriage, my school and college years, tour in Vietnam, and present job was he ready to talk about the Blue Goose.
In the next hour, the general recited events he could remember from the last flight of the Blue Goose. He didn't blame the air corps for relieving him after the accident. "In those days even though the air corps was a separate branch, we never were held in high esteem by our sister branches. Air corps manpower and funding was controlled by a clique of Washington-based infantry, cavalry and artillery officers. That was the reason we made damn sure that every air corps officer was a rated flyer. If we hadn't, we would have worn campaign hats and spurs when we flew. Whenever anything unusual happened, we had to 'shuffle the beans' just to say we did something."
After he finished, I gave him a copy of the Oxford Standard article. The general read it carefully, said it was the first time he'd heard of it, got up and walked to a large globe. He spun the globe until Brazil showed. After I recapped my conversation with Schaffer's brother, he thought it over for a minute then said, "Since there was no food or water on board his theory doesn't seem plausible. As for being picked up by a ship, if it was friendly we would have been notified by the navy or through an embassy. As far as enemy shipping goes, we had routine patrols that covered the entire area and there wasn't any. Schaffer sure as hell didn't float to Brazil in a life jacket and there's no way they could have gotten lost in Florida."
"B-24s had an electric auxiliary hydraulic pump on the right side of the bomb bay. The pump was normally used during take-offs and landings. Other than that, it was used as a backup for in-flight emergencies. Occasionally, gas fumes would build up in the bomb bay. If the auxiliary pump motor brushes arced, it would create one hell of an explosion. Our crews got around the problem by flying with the bomb bay doors cracked open about six inches. Bataglio was a good engineer. He knew the airplane inside out. He was trained at the Consolidated factory in San Diego. The engineer usually opened and closed the bomb bay doors and Bataglio was not careless. Before we converted to B-24s, he was crew chief of my B-18. My best guess at the time was that the Blue Goose blew up. It looks as if I was wrong."
"How did Schaffer get to Brazil?" I asked.
"Damned if I know. There's a good chance the army screwed up and tacked the wrong name onto the body. It won't be the first time a body has been incorrectly identified. Let's drive over to my office. I've got some pictures and a filing cabinet full of orders and correspondence I could never bring myself to throw away. My wife doesn't want them around the house."
Obviously, his wife spoke softly and carried a big stick---even generals have to take orders. We took my car and drove a half mile to a long, one-story, cinder block building. The sign on the building read 'Florida Precision Machine, Inc.' I parked behind the building in a long, open shed with a corrugated metal roof. The general took out his keys, unlocked the front door, then turned on a bank of overhead florescent lights. I saw desks, typewriters, filing cabinets, a copying machine and, tucked away in a corner, a drawing board. Through an adjoining door, we entered the general's office.
The office walls were covered with framed photographs: planes, group photos of uniformed men and civilians and some pictures of individuals. One photograph was of a cadet in a West Point uniform. It took me a minute but I recognized the general. As I scanned the office walls, I noticed the first column of photographs were taken at West Point. The rest appeared to be arranged in chronological order. The last photographs were taken at Florida Precision Machine and included some picnic scenes taken in the parking shed.
The general pointed to a column of photographs and said they were taken at Fort Myers. In a group photograph, he pointed out my father, Carlson and Murray. When I asked if he knew what happened to Carlson and Murray, he nodded. "Murray was promoted to major and Carlson made captain. Both were killed over Ploesti in 1943. The only one who might be alive is McCormick. He's the Irish kid right here." His finger pointed to a figure standing beside a B-24 with the rest of his crew. "He was Carlson's radio operator. Some crewmen that went down over Ploesti were taken prisoner by the Germans. He was lucky enough to be one of them."
The general opened his top desk drawer and took out a ring of keys. The top of his desk was littered with papers and blueprints. The office had a working look about it. It didn't resemble our company offices on executive row. Whenever I walked into one of those, I could smell furniture polish. Here, I could smell cutting oil. I didn't want to pry, but found the general studied engineering at West Point and started what he called FPM after he retired. We walked toward the rear of the building then entered the shop. The general used one of his keys, opened the soft drink machine, then pulled out a couple of Dr. Peppers. The shop was large, well lit and had several rows of engine and turret lathes. There were some milling machines and an assortment of other machine tools.
When he opened one of his file cabinet drawers, I could see that filing wasn't his strong suit. The drawer was crammed full, as were the other three drawers. "This might take a while. I'm sure I have a carbon of Captain Murray's report to Wright Field."
After hunting through the cabinet for half an hour the general said, "This is a bigger job than I thought. Next week I'll get some help and have all this stuff arranged chronologically. Probably should have done it years ago. I'll give you a call when I find it."
I told him I was going to visit my mother, in Los Angeles, and wouldn't be back until after the New Year. "Call me when you get back. While you're gone, I'll make some phone calls and find out how they identified Schaffer's body."
When I returned to Cocoa Beach, I called Joanne Peterson, told her I'd talked to the general and would fill her in over drinks at the Mousetrap. She said she had to pick up some relatives who were flying down for Christmas and would have to take a rain check. I told her I was flying to Los Angeles and would be back after the New Year. I thought she sounded pleased. The next morning I caught a flight to Los Angeles.
After I left for college, my mother moved to Los Angeles. Whenever possible, I spent Christmas there. So far, I hadn't mentioned the Oxford Standard article. A few days after Christmas, my mother received a New Year's card from the McCanns. The general's wife wrote a short note saying they enjoyed my visit. My mother vaguely remembered the McCanns and showed me their card. When she asked for an explanation, I showed her the Standard article and told her about my trip to Orlando. My mother started crying and said knowing how my father died wouldn't bring him back.
My mother's maiden name is Bridgette Hughes. She was an adopted child, born in France as Bridgette Duval. In 1918, her village was shelled by a long-range, German railroad gun. Both parents and her relatives were killed. My mother was trapped in the rubble. By chance, she was rescued by an American pilot who crash landed his damaged Spad close by. His name was Clifford Huff. Together with another American pilot, Sanford Hughes, they placed my two-year-old mother in an orphanage at Soissons. Lieutenant Hughes, stationed nearby, visited the orphanage several times a week to bring gifts and play with the children. After the war he married, returned to France, adopted my mother then returned to the States. My mother was their only child and loved her adopted parents.
The Hughes, my grandparents, were prominent New Yorkers. They had a summer home on Long Island. My mother met my father at an Officer's Club dance at Mitchel Field. He was a second lieutenant fresh out of Randolph Field. They were married in 1938. Four years after the war my mother married her present husband, an insurance company executive.
After my mother stopped crying, she began to reminisce and remembered attending a party for McCann when he was promoted to lieutenant colonel. She also remembered that his wife couldn't have children, lived on the base a few houses away from ours, and used to have parties for the post children. When my mother asked what my plans were, I had to admit I didn't have any. My mother said I should be thinking about marriage and knew several pretty girls she wanted me to meet. That day, I went shopping and bought a bunch of winter clothes---I knew it was time to leave.
The next day I caught a United flight out of Los Angeles International to Denver. At Denver, I changed planes and boarded a connecting Frontier flight to Grand Island. From the Grand Island Hertz office, I telephoned Melissa Jackson, at the Standard, told her I was in Nebraska and asked if she could find me a place to stay.
*****
Chapter 2 ~ Nebraska, December 1972 - January 1973
It's been quite a while since I've been in cold weather. The cold went right through me. I started the engine, turned on the defroster, then spent ten minutes scraping snow off the windows. I checked the road map and calculated I had roughly a 100 mile drive ahead of me. After dodging a line of snow banks, I drove out of the parking lot and headed toward the Kansas-Nebraska line. Several thoughts passed through my mind while I was driving. One was of Lieutenant Peterson in a bikini. Another was that you had to be crazy to visit Nebraska in December. Another was that I probably wouldn't learn anything that I didn't already know from George Schaffer. When I pulled into Oxford, I saw one wide street festooned with Christmas decorations, about a dozen stores and no traffic lights. I spotted the Standard office and parked in the middle of Main Street beside a half-dozen pickup trucks.
Through the Standard's large, plate glass window I saw three or four people inside. When I opened the door, I was greeted by Melissa Jackson an attractive brunette. She introduced me to her brother, who owned the paper, to his wife and another reporter. Melissa took my jacket and offered me a cup of coffee. She said they reserved a room for me at the only motel in town. After a little obligatory small talk, I found they were from Georgia. Her brother was about my age and bought the Standard five years ago. Melissa, a journalism major, started working for the Standard right after college. In February, she was moving to Omaha; apparently, she had an offer from the Omaha World-Herald that was too good to refuse. When I asked for directions to the motel, Melissa gave me directions. She said she would pick me up for supper in an hour.
At the motel I unpacked, turned on the television set, shaved, showered, got into a clean pair of slacks and a new wool Pendleton shirt I bought in Los Angeles. Television reception was grim. There were only three channels but I could only get one station that didn't have snow. There was a knock at the door. Before I could open it, Melissa bounced in. I told her she might have caught me with my pants down. "Don't worry I was the only girl in the family. I have three older brothers who look after my virtue. Get your coat, we're going to the steak house. I don't want to keep the town waiting."
Melissa's car engine and heater were still running when we jumped into the car. We drove a short distance to a large restaurant in the middle of what appeared to be an empty, snow covered prairie. The place was jammed. I've seen hundreds of western outfits and cowboy boots in Los Angeles where there aren't any cowboys; here, you could tell they were the real thing. The tables were arranged so as to form a large horseshoe. Someone reserved a seat for me at the head table. For some reason, I was getting VIP treatment.
Melissa's brother brought a camera with a flash attachment and took several pictures. The guys at the Cape would rib me mercilessly if they ever saw my picture in the Standard. Somehow, I got the feeling that I'd been had. I met Oxford's mayor, city council members, president of the Chamber of Commerce, town marshal, George Schaffer and several other local notables.
The mayor gave a short welcoming speech and introduced George Schaffer. Schaffer told how his brother, who played right end on Oxford's football team, caught a touchdown pass in the last few seconds of a game against Arapahoe High. When he finished, Schaffer introduced me as the guest of honor, pushed the microphone toward me, and then asked me to say a few words.
I gave them some background on my father, named the airplane, crewmembers and described their last flight. I told them the crew's commanding officer retired as a general and was living in Florida. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Melissa, about four tables away, monkeying with a tape recorder. I thought I would get a plug in for the space program while I was at it---and did. After answering a dozen questions about Apollo, the LM, and the Lunar Rover, I thanked them for their hospitality. The mayor made a few closing remarks. Finally, we dug into three-quarter-inch thick steaks.
After we finished eating, the Oxford High School dance band began to play. Before long, the dance floor was full. To be sociable, I danced with all the ladies. In between dances, I spoke to George Schaffer. He said he would call me in the morning. When I tried to corral Melissa, she avoided me. After the evening was almost over and the crowd thinned out, I drug Melissa onto the dance floor. I was about to chew her out for not telling me what to expect. Just as I was about to speak, she interrupted, "If I told you, you might have begged off. This story will make the Herald and maybe the AP will pick it up. Think of all the publicity you'll get."
"What do I need publicity for?"
"I've researched your background and talked with your secretary and boss at Cape Kennedy."
"If your research was any good, you'd know it's formally called Kennedy Space Center and I don't have a secretary. We have one secretary for a whole gaggle of people and my boss is my ex-boss."
"Your secretary told me you are going to try to find out what happened to your father and I want an exclusive on the story."
"It might end right here."
"It's a good human interest story. If you hadn't read my piece, you'd never have known where to start. Your boss said you always finish what you start except the paperwork. I'll take care of the paperwork."
When we left, there were still a dozen partygoers around. Melissa dropped me off at the motel. The cold air made me sleep like a log.
The phone rang before I fully woke up the next morning. It was Schaffer. He said he was coming to town and would meet me at the Oxford Cafe in about half an hour. I shaved, showered, dressed then drove down Main Street looking for the cafe. It wasn't hard to spot. Oxford only had one cafe. I parked the rental car then walked in. Several people sitting at the counter waved at me. I spotted George Schaffer in a booth along the wall. George shook my hand and called the lone waitress over. We ordered. George talked about his brother for a few minutes then told me he had some letters I might like to read. When we left the cafe, George pointed to his pickup and told me to follow him. We drove along a frozen, dirt road for about five miles until we came to a long, single-story, frame house surrounded by several outbuildings.
Schaffer's wife introduced me to her sons, both of whom were in their teens. If I was any judge, they were dressed for a special occasion. George motioned me into the large kitchen. We sat at the kitchen table while he opened a gray metal box. After sifting through the contents, he handed me two letters and a telegram. The War Department telegram was a carbon copy of the one my mother had, only the name had been changed. There was a typed letter from Lieutenant Colonel McCann that was similar to the one he'd written my mother. The other letter was handwritten and read:
March 26, 1942
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Schaffer,
Please allow me to express my sympathy for the loss of your son. He was an excellent pilot and well liked by all the officers, noncoms and men he served with. I'm a friend of Jerrys. I was born in Denison, Texas and after finishing high school joined the CCC. When my six months were up, I enlisted in the Army Air Corps. Later, I was accepted for flight training. At Randolph Field, I met Jerry and have served with him ever since. Jerry and I had a pact that if anything happened to either of us the other would write a letter to the next of kin explaining what happened.
If Jerry had a fault it was fishing. In Louisiana, we fished a lot and Jerry always came in second. When he found out that I tie my own flies, he insisted that I teach him how.
After Jerry learned, he came in first most of the time. When we came back from fishing trips, we would bring our catch to the squadron mess. Sgt. Ledet, our Cajun mess sergeant, would cook the greatest fish dinner either Jerry or I had ever eaten. If there were any fish left, the cook would trade them to the Officer's Mess for steaks. What I'm trying to say is that everybody from the flight line to the kitchen will miss Jerry.
Jerry was the copilot on Lt. Canada's ten-man B-24 crew. Lt. Canada liked to hunt and, for some reason, picked the name Blue Goose for the airplane. The name of the airplane was painted in blue letters on the left side of the forward fuselage. When the 343rd Bomb Sq. pulled a routine 100-hour inspection, metal was found in the oil screen and in the number three engine's sump.
The 343rd's line chief turned the Blue Goose over to the 38th Material Squadron. The 38th has shops that perform engine changes and do other heavy maintenance for the bomb squadrons. Jerry and Sgt. Bataglio, the engineer, taxied the airplane to the Material Squadron's maintenance area and helped change the engine. We didn't have a spare propeller. They had to wait a few days while the propeller shop cleaned and flushed their old propeller.
The air corps requires a test flight after an engine change with minimum crew. If the pilot wants to he can order the mechanics, who changed the engine, to fly with his crew. Most of the time we fly test flights with just a pilot, copilot and engineer. That Tuesday, January 20, I didn't have to fly and was tying flies in my tent. My tent is about seventy-five yards from where the Blue Goose was parked. I was facing the Blue Goose and had a good view of it. I watched as the squadron inspector went over the new engine; after he signed off the work, the cowling was installed and the mechanics started the number three engine.
A short while later, a Jeep pulled up and dropped off Lt. Canada, Sgt. Bataglio and Jerry. Sgt. Bataglio stood fireguard. He climbed in through the bomb bay after the engines were started. While the crew started the engines, I saw three mechanics load a life raft aboard the Blue Goose. The take-off appeared normal and I didn't look at my watch. Later, I checked the tower log and found that take-off was at 1406 hours. That was the last time I saw Jerry.
The next day I told the Operations Officer that I thought some mechanics were aboard the Blue Goose. Capt. Murray thought that everybody was present and accounted for except the crew of the Blue Goose. He had me check with the headquarters sergeant major. The sergeant major reviewed all the Morning Reports and said that Capt. Murray was right, nobody else was missing.
Our squadron and several others searched the entire area for two weeks. We found no trace of the Blue Goose. We may never know what happened. The reason my letter is late is that I was hoping that Jerry would show up and I wouldn't have to write it.
Capt. Murray informed me that the crew of the Blue Goose has officially been declared missing and presumed dead. If you have any questions or would like to write, my address is:
T/Sgt. Walter Lynn S/N 6727317
343rd Bombardment Sq.
98th Bombardment Group
Fort Myers Army Air Base, Florida
Respectfully yours,
Walter Lynn
George Schaffer poured us both a cup of coffee then showed me some pictures. We talked for a few minutes. I asked if I could have copies of the letters. He said the nearest copying machine was at the Standard office. George had some errands to run so I followed his pickup back to town.
After we entered the Standard office, Melissa went into the back room, made copies, handed me the copies and gave George the originals. George said he had to pick up some tractor parts and left. "If you let me read the letters, I'll buy you lunch," Melissa offered.
"You can save some money if you'd read the extra copies you made in the back room," I said as I handed her the copies.
She gave me a dirty look, leaned over the counter and began to read. I couldn't help looking down at the opening of her well-filled V-neck sweater. She pushed my head to one side and asked, "What's a 100-hour inspection and a sump?"
"I don't know. Your research should have shown that I was in the infantry."
"My brother said if your lips move when you read they put you in the infantry."
I told her to quit being a smart-ass and that I was buying lunch. We walked over to the Oxford Cafe, found a table and ordered. Over lunch, I found that Melissa knew everybody in town---or at least it seemed that way. They all stopped by our booth that, fortunately, only seated four. I paid the check and left a generous tip. Melissa waved to the folks at the counter as we left.
When we reached her desk, Melissa asked me when I was leaving Oxford. I thought a minute then said, "Probably tomorrow morning."
"Will you stay an extra day and take me to a New Year's Eve party if I get some information on Walter Lynn?"
"I'm going to drive around and see the sights for a couple of hours. If you find him before I get back, I'll stay."
I drove south on a primary road toward Beaver City. The houses were spaced far apart in the flat, snow-covered country. Along the way, I watched tractors, with snow plows attached, clear the secondary roads and driveways. At Beaver City, the county seat and somewhat larger than Oxford, I drank a cup of coffee and spoke to some old timers lounging around the cafe. They told me that most towns in this area had been laid out in the late 19th century along the Burlington Railroad right-of-way. Before the railroads came, this part of the prairie was home to buffalo herds, the Sioux and Pawnee. An old timer told me that the Lincoln Land Company originally laid out over 200 towns in the southern part of Nebraska. The company was still in the business of buying and selling land. From Beaver City, I drove through a small town called Stamford then back to the motel.