they descended, and keeping records of temperature, humidity, and
pressure. At times they flew through clouds on instruments in the rain,
and now and then there was light icing. After about three hours, they
began to run low on gas, so they flew through the western part of the
storm and back to Oklahoma.
At the end of the hurricane season, these flights were reported to the
Weather Bureau and recommendations were forwarded to the Joint Chiefs of
Staff that military aircraft be used routinely to explore hurricanes and
improve the accuracy of the warnings. The Joint Chiefs referred this to
their meteorological committee, with representatives of the Army Air
Corps, the Navy and the Weather Bureau, and on February 15, 1944, a plan
was approved for the coming season. As far as possible, crews with
experience in flying the weather were selected. Some of these had been
on daily missions on the Atlantic, for the protection of convoys. By the
beginning of the 1944 season, planes and men were at their posts in
Florida, ready to go on instructions from the joint hurricane center in
Miami.
Probing of hurricanes by air came to a sharp focus in September, 1944.
On the eighth, signs of a disturbance were picked up in the Atlantic,
northeast of Puerto Rico. As it approached the northern Bahamas, its
central pressure was extremely low, below 27.00 inches--estimated at
26.85--and it covered an enormous area with winds of terrific force.
From here its center crossed the extreme eastern tip of North Carolina,
sideswiped the New Jersey coast, doing vast damage, and then hit Long
Island and New England with tremendous fury. On account of the war,
ships at sea were not reporting the weather and the hurricane hunters
had a real job on their hands.
On the morning of the tenth, Forecaster Norton at the Miami Weather
Bureau studied the weather map, grumbled about the lack of observations
from the West Indies, and decided to ask for a plane to go out and
report the weather north of Puerto Rico. He had little to go on, but he
thought it was a very bad storm. On the afternoon of the ninth, the Air
Corps had sent a plane out from Antigua. They had reported winds of
eighty miles, very rough seas, and center about 250 miles northeast of
San Juan. Very little information had come from the area since that
time, except the regular weather messages from San Juan. After trying to
get the Navy office on the telephone half a dozen times, Norton gave up.
Every time he started to dial, the phone rang and he answered it, making
an effort to hang up quickly and get a call in before it rang again. But
many people had learned about the storm and were anxious for more
information, hence the phone was constantly busy.
"I thought this was an unlisted phone," he complained to the map crew.
"It is," replied an assistant. "We gave the number only to the radio,
press, and a few others, to make sure we could get a call out when we
had to, but these restricted phone numbers leak out. We'll have to
change the number again."
Norton squeezed between the map man and the wall and sat down at the
teletypewriter in the corner after the operator had stepped out into the
hall. The office was crowded and when one man wanted to leave his place,
nearly everybody else had to stand up to make room. Norton rang a bell,
rattled the teletypewriter, and finally got Commander Loveland on the
line down at the Navy office.
This was an exclusive line--Weather Bureau to Navy--and Norton pecked
out a message. "Looks like a bad hurricane out there. It's maybe three
days from Florida if it comes here, but it probably won't. Looks like it
would go up toward the Carolinas. We can't be sure. Maybe we should have
a recco this morning. What do you think?"
"Think we can get one up there from Puerto Rico this morning," came the
message from Loveland. "I'll see what I can do. Did you check with the
Army?"
"Yes, the Major talked to Colonel Ellsworth and he says they expect to
get a plane out there from Borinquen this afternoon. Also, I asked for
clearance on a public message yesterday and got an OK last night."
At that time, because of the war, public releases about storms along the
coast were still restricted and had to be cleared with Naval Operations
in Washington. If enemy submarines learned that planes were being
evacuated from airports on the seaboard, they were emboldened to come
out in the open and attack shipping along the coast. Oil tankers and
other ships would have a bad enough time in the storm without running
into submarines openly on the prowl. But the Chiefs of Staff had to
balance this against the possible loss of life and property in coastal
communities.
On their mission to explore the storm, the Navy crew from Puerto Rico
ran into heavy rain and turbulence. Visibility was nil as they
approached the center. They stayed down low to keep a view of the ocean
but found the altimeter badly in error. As soon as they broke out of the
clouds, they found the sea was much closer than they had figured. The
plane was almost completely out of control several times. They changed
course, got out of the storm, sent a message to Miami, and returned to
Ramey Field in Puerto Rico.
Steadily the hurricane kept on a west-northwest course, increasing in
size and violence. As it went along, the aircraft of the Navy and Air
Forces were on its heels and driving toward the center, like gnats
around an angry bull. It was headed for the Carolinas; everybody was
agreed on that now. Ships were in trouble, running to get from between
the hurricane and the coast as the winds closed in, and anxious people
waited for the next report.
At that time, a hurricane was thought to have four stages of existence.
First was the formation stage, often with circulatory winds and rain
developing in a pressure wave coming westward over the Atlantic or
Caribbean. Second, it quickly concentrated into a small but very violent
whirl and, over a relatively small area, had the most violent winds of
its existence. In this stage it might not have been more than one
hundred miles in diameter. Third, it became a mature storm, spreading
out, and although its winds did not become any more violent, they spread
over a much larger area, maybe as much as three hundred miles, or more,
in diameter. Fourth was the stage of decay, when it began to lose its
almost circular shape and the winds began to diminish. Now it went off
to the northward and became an extra-tropical storm or struck inland in
the south and died with torrential rains and squally winds.
This hurricane seemed to be an exception. As it spread out to cover a
bigger area, its winds seemed to develop greater fury. A Navy plane went
in as it approached the Carolinas and found extreme turbulence, winds
estimated at 140 miles an hour, torrential rain that penetrated the
airplane, and no visibility through the splatter and smear on the
windows. And when the stalwart crew came down below the clouds, the sea
was a welter of foam, with gusts wiping the tops off waves that reached
up to tremendous heights.
While no planes were lost in probing this terrible storm, a destroyer, a
mine sweeper, two Coast Guard cutters, and a light vessel were sunk. An
Army plane estimated the winds at 140 miles an hour. The weather
officer, Lieutenant Victor Klobucher, said that it was the worst storm
that had been probed by the hurricane hunters up to that time. The
turbulence was so bad that, with both the pilot and co-pilot straining
every muscle, the plane could not be kept under control, and several
times they thought it would be torn apart or crash into the sea. On
returning to the base, the fliers found that 150 rivets had been sheared
off one wing alone.
On the morning of the fourteenth of September, the terrible tempest was
close to the eastern tip of North Carolina, apparently destined to
sideswipe the coast from there northward with devastating force. There
was some alarm in Washington. It might possibly turn more to the
northward and its center might come up Chesapeake Bay or up the Potomac
River. A violent storm in Washington at that time would have been
detrimental to the prosecution of war plans. In 1933, a smaller
hurricane had taken this course and its destructive visit to the Bay
region and the Capital had not been forgotten. Also, in the minds of the
military was the opportunity offered that day to explore a big hurricane
and find out more concerning its inner workings.
On that critical morning, Colonel F. B. Wood, a veteran flyer in the Air
Corps, came down to Bolling Field outside Washington with
hurricane-probing on his mind. After talking about it to the men around
the field, he decided to try a flight at least into the outer edges of
the storm as it passed to the eastward during the day. He thought about
the junior officers and men being sent into these furious winds and he
felt it was a good idea for one of the head men to go out and see what
it was like.
Wood talked to Lieutenant Frank Record and found he was anxious to go.
He grabbed the telephone and got Major Harry Wexler on the line. Harry
was a Weather Bureau research official who was in the Army for the
duration.
"Harry, how about taking you out in the hurricane today?" Wood asked.
"I'll pilot the plane. Frank is going along."
"Sure you can take me out, but you've got to bring me back," Harry
answered. "This is a round trip, Floyd, I hope." Wood agreed to do his
best to make a round trip out of it.
At two o'clock that afternoon, the trio took off and headed east with
some misgivings. They knew that this was one of the worst tropical
storms that had been charted up to that time. The hurricane was then
centered near Cape Henry, Virginia. The wind at Norfolk had been up to
ninety miles an hour. Colonel Wood described it as follows:
"Immediately after take-off, we penetrated a thin overcast, the top of
which was about fifteen hundred feet, and then proceeded to a point
approximately twenty miles northeast of Langley Field. The boundary of
the hurricane, as seen from the latter location, was a dense black wall
running along the western edge of the Chesapeake Bay. The airplane was
turned on a heading so as to fly a track that would lead straight toward
the estimated position of the center of the hurricane. Altitude was
three thousand feet. A drift correction of 30° was allowed to account
for the estimated one hundred miles per hour cross wind encountered at
the outer edge of the storm. Immediately on entering the outer edge, the
atmosphere turned very dark and a blanket of heavy rainfall was
encountered."
Very surprisingly, the flyers reported that in this area a strong but
steady down-current was also encountered. The latter was contrary to the
accepted idea that all of the area encompassed by the steep pressure
fall in a hurricane contains ascending rather than descending air up to
great heights. Although visibility was very low, due to the heavy
rainfall, there were very few clouds below the altitude of the airplane
(three thousand feet), except for some scud over Cape Henry.
The waves in Chesapeake Bay were enormous. A freighter plowing through
the Bay was being swept from bow to stern by huge waves which at times
appeared to engulf the whole vessel at once. Spray was being thrown into
the air at heights which appeared to reach two hundred feet above the
surface of the Bay. From the appearance of the water, both within
Chesapeake Bay and east of Cape Henry, it is not surprising that a Navy
destroyer of the 1850-ton class was sunk there. One of the foremost
thoughts in the men's minds at the time was that should the aircraft be
forced down in the hurricane, neither life rafts, "Mae Wests," or any
other lifesaving device would have saved them from drowning!
The flight was continued on toward the assumed position of the center of
the hurricane. Although the downdraft continued strong, very little
turbulence was encountered. The airplane lost a speed of about seventy
miles per hour in the necessary climb required to make up for the
downward motion of the air. The heavy rain continued. At a point
approximately fifty to sixty miles inward from the outer edge of the
hurricane, they suddenly entered an area of rising air. This area also
contained fairly dense clouds below, but very thin clouds above. The sun
was visible through the thin clouds overhead. They seemed to be on the
edge of the center. The vertical air movement was of such magnitude that
the airplane was lifted from the three thousand foot level to five
thousand feet before power could be reduced and the airplane nosed
downward. Turbulence in this area was also considerably more severe than
in the zone of descending air just passed through, but was not of such
severity as to endanger the flight.
Although the flight was continued for a few minutes on toward the point
where the center of the hurricane was thought to be, the conditions of
flight remained constant; that is, moderate turbulence, rising air, and
the sun faintly visible through the thin clouds overhead. The men
thought they were off to one side or other of the center, but not
finding it, and not knowing the direction in which to fly to locate it
exactly, the airplane was turned around and flown on a track which was
estimated would lead toward Norfolk. An altitude of five thousand feet
was maintained on the way out. The dark band of descending air and heavy
rainfall was traversed in the reverse order as during the incoming
flight. They emerged from the hurricane at a point approximately thirty
miles east-northeast of Norfolk.
Afterward, Colonel Wood felt more confident about junior officers flying
into hurricanes, but there were many questions yet to be answered.
Incidentally, the three men in this plane and the members of the
squadron who flew into the same hurricane from Miami were awarded the
Air Medal in February, 1945, for their bravery in these flights.
Colonel Wood drew the following conclusions:
"Although one of the more important points indicated by our experience
during the aforementioned flight is that hurricanes can very probably be
successfully flown through after they have reached temperate latitudes,
it should not be accepted as conclusive proof that all hurricanes may be
flown through. Although there have been several instances of flights
into hurricanes before they migrated out of the tropical regions, it is
not known whether, at the times the flights were made, any of these
storms were of an intensity that even approached the maximum possible.
Further, it is not known for certain whether the hurricane that passed
along the Virginia coast on the fourteenth of September is typical of
all hurricanes once they reach temperate latitudes. Indications are that
this hurricane was about as severe as they ever get to be at these
latitudes, but insufficient flying experience in hurricanes has been
obtained to determine conclusively that all hurricanes in temperate
latitudes are safe to fly through. Any pilot who in the future might
desire to repeat the experience referred to in this statement is advised
that any hurricane should be approached gingerly and with a view toward
making an immediate 180° change in his track, should severe turbulence,
hail, or severe thunderstorm activity be encountered.
"It is believed that the method of examining a hurricane by flight
reconnaissance that would produce the most revealing results is to
attempt an approach to it from the stratosphere. It is thought, further,
that such a flight could be made over the outer rim of the hurricane and
a let-down into the center or hollow eye of the storm be made with
complete safety. A record of the temperature at various flight levels
while descending through the central (hollow) portion of the storm,
together with photographs of the cloud structure, would be of tremendous
value."
In October there was another hurricane in Florida. It began in the
western Caribbean on the thirteenth and crossed western Cuba on the
seventeenth. On the south coast the hurricane winds created an enormous
tide. More than three hundred people were killed, and a Standard Oil
Company barge was carried ten miles inland. When the big winds roared
across Florida on the eighteenth and nineteenth, it was a severe storm
with a calm center that was at one time about seventy miles long.
As it drove violent winds and seas toward Florida, an airline company,
Transcontinental & Western Air, decided to investigate and sent an
experienced pilot, Captain Robert Buck, in a B-17, to fly through and
observe the weather and electrical phenomena in the storm. Of course, he
considered the flight hazardous but he was willing. Any person who had
experienced the violent winds of these storms or read about their
destructive effects was likely to assume that a plane at low levels in
the middle part of the storm might have its wings torn off.
Buck started to climb into the edge of the storm at Alma, Georgia, going
in warily at four thousand feet and finding only light to moderate
turbulence from there to nine thousand feet, after which it became
smoother. This was in accordance with the reports of other fliers who
had ventured in at high levels, and he was reassured.
At eleven thousand feet the rain changed to sleet. This was not
unexpected. Ordinarily it is much colder at such a height than at the
ground. The temperature drops about one degree for each rise of three
hundred feet. Although the plane was flying in instrument conditions and
"blind," there were no ordinary water-cloud particles, but simply haze
and sleet.
At 12,700 feet, with the temperature at the freezing point, the plane
flew through moderate to heavy snow with very large flakes. The climb
was continued and the snow remained moderate, but as the altitude
increased, the size of the snowflakes decreased. The air was perfectly
smooth, with the exception of about one minute of light turbulence at
16,000 feet. During the entire climb no ice was encountered, but there
were a few patches of snow sticking on the airplane. This was definitely
not ice. Due to loss of radio reception on all receivers, including the
loop, it was difficult to obtain the wind accurately. It was estimated
to be easterly at approximately eighty-five miles an hour, to about
16,000 feet, where it changed to westerly with about the same velocity.
At 19,400 feet, the temperature had dropped to 27°. At 22,800 feet, the
snow was light and fine and the temperature was 18°. The temperature had
dropped to 14° at 24,600 feet.
At 25,000 feet, the plane broke out of the side of the storm near the
top. At 25,800 feet, the plane was flying in the clear where the
temperature was 18°. During the entire climb from 9,500 feet to 25,000
feet, no fog was encountered, only particles of snow.
Near Jacksonville, Florida, the tops of the clouds dropped sharply to
8,000 feet. The plane flew east out to sea to check the eastern side of
the storm and, satisfied that Jacksonville was close to the storm's
center, proceeded to the coast again and to Daytona Beach, where the
craft landed.
Pilot Buck concluded that the paramount danger lies in an aircraft
becoming lost, due to the failure of radio navigation caused by static,
coupled with the high winds. He said that a tropical storm of the type
flown is not hazardous to aircraft in respect to structural failure and
loss of control, if an altitude of over approximately 8,000 feet is
held.
In December, all the men connected with the hurricane warning service in
the Army, Navy, Weather Bureau and other agencies--including the top
officials, the forecasters, the men who directed the flights, the
pilots, weather officers, and others who made up the crews, the radio
men on shore, and the Coast Guard people--were fully represented in a
conference in Washington. Here they all went over their experiences and
offered every possible suggestion for improving the service. Many things
were needed, but two tough problems worried everybody.
One was how the crew could find out where they were in latitude and
longitude or in distance and direction from some point on an island or
on the coast after they found the center of the storm. After all, the
weather observer, navigator, and the radio man might figure out how to
get in the eye, and the plane might get into it, but if they failed to
get their position accurately, the information was of doubtful value.
This nearly always depended on radio signals from distant shore
stations, for it was seldom that they could get a celestial fix as a
mate does on a ship at sea. The second problem was communications--how
to get the weather message off and be sure it had been received at a
shore radio station, and see also that it reached the forecast offices
promptly. All of this had many sources of delay. In a hurricane, the
atmospherics were often excessive. At times the radio man on the plane
could hear nothing but loud static in his ear phones. He was powerless
to do anything except to send "blind" and hope somebody would receive it
and understand what it was. Slowly these problems were solved in part as
time went on.
_10._ KAPPLER'S HURRICANE
_Black it stood as night,
Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell._
--Milton
Kappler's Hurricane was one of the most violent of history. It got its
name from a weather officer, a second lieutenant in the Army Air Corps
named Bernard J. Kappler. The story includes the vivid personal
reactions of a number of men who explored this tremendous storm as it
built up its energy while crossing fifteen hundred miles of tropical and
subtropical sea surface and finally ravaged parts of Southern Florida,
including the outright destruction of the big Richmond Naval Air Base.
The fact is that this storm seems to have had its birth over western
Africa. There were signs of it there and near the Cape Verde Islands on
the first two days of September. Later there were some indications of
its winds and low pressure in radio reports from ships but eventually it
was lost for the time being, far out in the Atlantic.
Kappler discovered it on September 12, 1945. He was on a regular
weather-reporting mission to the Windward Islands. Every day one or more
B-25's took off from Morrison Field at West Palm Beach and explored the
atmosphere on flights to Antigua, British West Indies, returning via the
open Atlantic to Florida. On that day there was nothing unusual until
the plane in which Kappler was flying was about two hours from Antigua.
Here, he noted a black wall of clouds to the east and at his suggestion
the pilot, First Lieutenant D. A. Cassidy, took the plane down to
fifteen hundred feet and they looked around.
Without any doubt, a tropical storm was in the making. Its winds already
were blowing around a center with gusts at about seventy miles an hour.
There was moderate turbulence, with stretches of rain, but they had no
particular difficulty in flying through it. They reported it to
headquarters and were told to land at Coolidge Field in Antigua and be
prepared to take another look and report in the morning.
This operation was known as "Duck Fight," consisting of five B-25
aircraft and five crews made up of twenty officers and fifteen men. This
particular group had been at British Guiana but had moved up to Florida
in May for the new hurricane duty. It was their job to explore this
region twice daily, looking for weather trouble when no storm was known
to be in progress. If a suspicious area was found, they were deployed
and used in accordance with directives from the hurricane center at
Miami. The Navy also had planes assigned to similar missions.