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The following routine dispatch was received by the commanding officer of a naval aircraft utility squadron at San Diego, California, in early 1937. FROM: COMMANDER, AIRCRAFT SQUADRON, BATTLE FLEET TO: C.O. UTRON—F
Prepare XP3D aircraft for inspection tour of Caribbean and Panama air facilities.
Before assignment to the XP3D, I was an aviation chief machinist mate and the engineering chief of Patrol Squadron 11. “Sandy” Tyler was an aviation machinist mate first class in my crew. We received orders for transfer to the utility squadron at San Diego, and further assignment to the XP3D. I was made chief flight engineer and plane captain, and “Sandy” first engineer. Our initiation to the intricacies of the plane was to research and remedy previous mechanical failures before our departure, which was less than two weeks away.
Our Navy Douglas flying boat crew worked around the
clock preparing the plane for this mission.
The date arrived with kinks still to be ironed out. An extension of three days was granted; time enough to correct remaining discrepancies. Meanwhile, the inspecting admiral and his staff proceeded by the aircraft tender USS Wright (AV-1) to Acapulco, Mexico, intending to con- hnue the mission by plane upon our arrival.
Finally, the date of departure came. Dawn broke with a Pea-soup fog hanging over San Diego Bay. We warmed up the engines and waited for a break. With only a few hundred yards surface visibility, we taxied past the ferry slips and began takeoff. The bad luck which was to hound the entire project began immediately: the pilot found himself running out of bay and approaching the mud flats at the end of the harbor. With a final effort the plane broke water and barely held flying speed as it hedge-hopped over the flats and the Coronado Strand. Tension mounted as we realized we were holding our own only a few feet above water. Ahead were the Del Coronado Islands off the coast °f Mexico.
Anxious minutes dragged by, minutes that seemed like aa eternity. With engines under maximum power, suffi- c'ent altitude was gained to lose sight of the water below, but we were now encased in a blanket of gray mist. Although the altimeter indicated we had ample air space below us, only by calculating time and airspeed were we convinced we had passed safely over the islands. The pilot beaded out over the Pacific and set course south-southeast, a course that would keep us clear of the coast of Mexico.
As the load lightened, altitude increased. Eventually, We worked up to 5,000 feet with no break in the weather, b was hard to maintain equanimity under the stress of b°urs in the soup. However, like the old Chinese proverb, ‘When the moon is full, it begins to wane; when it is darkest it begins to grow.” After five hours, the curtain of *bg opened. Not only did blue skies and a bright sun greet Us but, off the port bow, the Sierra'De San Lazaro mountain range, rising a majestic 3,000 feet at the lower tip of “aja California, extended a hearty welcome.
The remainder of the 500-mile flight was uneventful. 'Ac crossed the Gulf of California at the Tropic of Cancer, Passed the Marias Islands and reached the Mexican mainland at Cape Corrientes. For the next few hours, we absorbed what scenery we could of the coastal states of •*alisco, Colima, Michoacan, and Guerrero, and landed at Acapulco De Juarez about dusk, having lost better than an hour of daylight on the southeasterly course.
. Although the weather report was favorable for takeoff ln Ihe morning, the pilot was told we could expect a light bulwind, offshore air currents, and large groundswells °utside the harbor. Because of the extra passengers and |be troubles encountered on the previous takeoff, the pilot decided the least essential spares and beaching gear, wbich had been secured in the hull, would be transferred to the tender. Gasoline was limited to an amount sufficient !? reach the destination—Coco Solo, Panama Canal Zone.
echnically, this would more than compensate for the adc 'tional weight of the passengers and baggage, and allow a n’ar§in of safety for takeoff.
The day started early—0400. Dawn itself had not yet awakened when the crew singled up the anchor lines and warmed up the engines by circling the buoy. The lull was filled with a timely discussion of how, when the sun went “over the yardarm” that evening (work was completed), the crew would be “splicing the main brace” (haying a highball) in a favorite rendezous in Colon, Panama.
At the first sign of daybreak, the admiral’s barge came along the port waist hatch, and he and his staff climbed aboard. We stowed their baggage and lashed it in the bow compartment in preparation for takeoff.
“Sandy” Tyler took his station between the pilots’ seats. His job was to man the emergency hydraulic hand pump for wing flap and float retraction, in case of power pump failure. My station was in the third compartment aft of the pilot, manning the engineer’s controls, gas valves, and emergency pumps, and monitoring many meters and gauges. We dogged down the watertight and exit hatches and reported readiness for takeoff. The plane taxied up the bay and made a wide turn to gain speed before heading through the mouth and out to sea. We were “over the hump and on the step” as we finally reached the exit of the harbor.
By the first few groundswells we should have made enough altitude to hold our own, but our bad luck held. We bounced from one swell to the next, each getting larger and hitting harder as we headed out to sea. Each time the plane hit, the crew expected the bottom plate rivets to snap and go through the overhead. These conditions were not unusual for a “Big Boat” man who had rough water experience, but under near-maximum load conditions anything was possible.
Time and speed were critical as we left land well behind. The motors’ crescendo rose to a roar. Manifold pressure gauges were reading in the danger zone as the flight crew corralled every last “horse” from the engines.
The pilot was having difficulty maintaining equilibrium in the turbulence. The starboard wing dropped, shearing off the wing tip float on a swell. Through the look-out port I saw it gliding off over the water like a sea sled.
The plane had now climbed several feet. It was not enough. Another eddy dropped the port wing, and with the extra weight of the float, the plane started to roll. As the wing tip hit the water, the hull buckled in on its port bow.
I remember the sound of several tons of metal hitting the water and what sounded like exploding engines. I remember nothing of the next few moments: the impact had thrown me against the control panel knocking me senseless. Cold sea water creeping up my body brought my faculties back. I saw gray-green light and a geyser of seawater in the compartment. The impact had broken the plane’s back and sheared the bottom plates and stringers, leaving a 15-inch gap extending well up the sidewalls.
Our survival depended on the flotation gear. The seven- man life raft was stowed in the auxiliary power compartment just aft of my station. The dogs on the hatch opened readily, but spares had broken their lashings and wedged the raft in its rack. Its release seemed hopeless.
“Sandy” opened the passageway hatches and came aft to lend a hand. Excitedly, he told me there were no critical injuries forward, and that they had released the two-man raft. Water was pouring through a number of major breaks in the hull and was now waist deep in all compartments. He decided to go forward to release anything that would float in case my efforts to release the raft failed. He was able to jettison one kapok mattress before being forced to abandon the aircraft.
It did not take long to discover that the raft was immovable. Water was above the passageway and up to my armpits. The planned exit was in the next compartment aft through the waist hatch on the port side, but two of the dogs on the hatch would not budge; it was as if they were welded shut.
The starboard waist hatch had been secured permanently since it had never been used—no exit there. The only other exit in the rear of the aircraft was the tunnel hatch in the tail. This too had been sealed to prevent water leakage into the hull on takeoffs and landings. All escape in this area was now shut off, and water was closing about me rapidly. Confusion turned to panic.
Strange how, in a moment of concentration, one’s thoughts do not dwell on loved ones or death—only life was important now. A scene from a previous aircraft mishap flashed through my mind: a night at sea lashed to the float of a capsized torpedo plane. I recalled having requested from the “Life Bank” sufficient hours to see the sun rise again. At daybreak, the rescue planes spotted the float. I was enjoying an appetizing meal on board the rescue tug when the sun came over the horizon that morning. My request for borrowed time had been granted.
Was my credit still good? I asked not for hours now— just one minute, and I felt sure something would work out.
The diminishing air space above the water in the hull was getting darker, but the reflection of light coming from the break in the bottom compartments forward was encouraging. For there, overhead, was the engineer’s hatch that led out through the top of the hull. I dove under, swimming and pulling against the water pressure coming through the hatch. Following the ray of light back through the compartment where I had given up on releasing the life raft and through the next hatch, I found the ladder that led up the side of the engineer’s panel to the escape hatch.
One look was enough to see that this exit was also hopeless. The buckle in the main hull overhead ran along the trailing edge of the wing and through the hatch area. To make matters worse, ruptured lines had filled what little air space was left with asphyxiating gas and oil fumes.
In anxious, almost insane desperation, I yelled so loud I was sure my family heard me in California. The outburst relieved some tension, and helplessness gave way to apathy. My memory of the next few moments is blank.
The body reacts to subconscious stimuli. I do not recall submerging and swimming through the hatch into the bunk compartment, or through the next hatch and into the navigation and radio section of the hull. My senses returned when I reached the fresh air overhead. In the next section forward, daylight was coming through the pilots’ overhead sliding windows, and beyond them I could see blue sky. It was Ralph Waldo Emerson who said, “The sky is the daily bread of the eyes.” At this moment, it was a feast in its entirety.
I squirmed through the bulkhead opening and onto the pilot’s seat, where I knelt momentarily with my head above water gamering strength to pull myself up through the pilot’s escape hatch to freedom. Then I pushed myself clear and inflated my “Mae West” life jacket. A short distance away I could see the two-man life raft and mattress with heads bobbing near them. I half swam and half floated to join the others.
The inspecting admiral or a member of his staff was heard to say, “According to specifications the built-in buoyancy of the wings should keep the plane afloat for some time.” A hearty “Th’ar she blows”—the old whaling cry—would not have been inappropriate at this moment: as the hull sank below the surface a final gasp of air pressure sent up a water spout. The plane rested on its wings for an instant, lifted its tail weakly and disappeared from sight. A heavy scum of floating oil and gasoline filled the vortex as it submerged.
Moments after the mishap, a Mexican fishing vessel was at the scene and stood by until the admiral's barge arrived and rescued all hands from the shark-infested waters. I was confined to sick bay on board the Wright with a back injury, and “Sandy” Tyler and radioman “Sparks” Potter were held for observation. The admiral visited us daily to check on our welfare.
In spite of the catastrophe, I have fond memories of these moments. I was alive! It was not my misfortune to share the plane’s final resting place—a watery grave 60 fathoms below. I told “Sandy”: “Thanks a million for lending a hand. Had you not opened those hatches, I’m sure the “Life Bank” would have foreclosed on me.” And to the “Life Bank,” “Please deduct my debt to you, with interest, from my life span. In the meantime, thanks kindly for your loan of just sixty seconds to live."
Among those who survived, perhaps the one who made the best use of the almost 20 years he lived after the accident was our inspecting Admiral who went on to lead the Navy in World War II, Ernest Joseph “Ernie” King.