the comparatively clear eye of the big typhoon. The southern tip of the
island became visible, just under the western edge of Gloria's core.
Gigantic swells were breaking upon the coast and the control operator
advised that winds had been 105 miles per hour just thirty minutes
before and had been increasing rapidly. He reported that the control
building's roof had just blown off, all types of debris were flying by,
and aircraft were being tossed about like toys.
A little later, the ground operator had to crawl under a table to get
shelter because nearly all of the building had been blown away, bit by
bit. Structures of the quonset type were crushed like matchboxes and
carried away like pieces of paper. Their roofs were ripped like rags. A
cook at the Air Force Base hurried into a large walk-in refrigerator
when everything began to blow away. "It was the only safe place I could
find," he explained afterward. "The building blew away but the
refrigerator was left behind and here I am."
One of the meanest of the typhoons of this period was known as "Vulture
Charlie." It was dangerous to airmen because of the extreme violence of
its turbulence. Ordinarily, the typhoons were known by girls' names, and
for that reason the typhoon hunters in the Pacific were known as
"girl-chasers." But "Vulture Charlie" got the first word of its name
from the type of mission involved, and "Charlie" from the third word in
the phonetic alphabet used in communications.
On November 4, 1948, an aircraft commanded by Captain Louis J. Desandro
ran into the violent turmoil of Vulture Charlie and described it as
follows:
"We hit heavy rain and suddenly the airspeed and rate of climb began to
increase alarmingly and reached a maximum of 260 miles per hour and four
thousand feet per minute climb to an altitude of three thousand seven
hundred feet. The sudden increase in altitude was brought about by
disengaging the elevator control of the auto-pilot and raising the nose
to control the airspeed. Power was not reduced because of our low
altitude. After about thirty seconds to one minute of this unusual
condition we hit a terrific bump which appeared to be the result of
breaking out of a thunderhead. The airspeed then decreased to 130 miles
per hour in a few seconds due to the fact that we encountered downdrafts
on the outer portion of the thunderhead and were momentarily suspended
in air. At this point the left wing dropped slightly and I immediately
shoved the nose down to regain airspeed. Before a safe airspeed was
again reached, we had descended to an altitude of one thousand one
hundred feet.
"As a result of this turbulence my feet came up off the rudder pedals.
The engineer, who was sitting on the nose wheel door instructing a
student engineer, came up off the floor like he was floating in the air.
The navigator and weather observer were raised out of their seats. A
coffee cup, which was on the back of the airplane commander's instrument
panel, was raised to the ceiling and came down on the weather observer's
table. Cabin airflow was being used and the airflow meter exploded and
glass hit both engineers in the face."
In December, 1948, a crew under the command of Lieutenant David Lykins
was instructed to use the boxing procedure in a typhoon called
"Beverly." On one of their missions, they flew into it on December 7.
The following is based on his report:
The operations office instructed the crew to climb to the seven hundred
millibar level (about ten thousand feet) after take-off, penetrate the
eye of the storm, take a fix in the center, then make a spiral descent
and sounding down to one thousand five hundred feet and proceed out of
the storm on a northwesterly heading, to begin the pattern around the
storm center.
After the briefing, the crew ate dinner, while talking anxiously about
the trip, and returned to the aircraft to load personal equipment. When
they were airborne with the gear and flaps up, they made an initial
contact with Guam Control. There was no reported traffic, so they were
cleared. The instructions were complied with and a heading of 270
degrees was taken up. Soon there was discernible on the horizon a vast
coverage of high, thin clouds at about thirty thousand feet. This
indicated the presence of the storm, verified by the south wind and
slight swells that were perpendicular to the flight direction of the
plane. The wind was increasing and the swells were noticed to intensify.
The boundary of the storm area was very distinct as they approached the
edge. At this point, the surface wind was estimated to be thirty-five
knots from 180 degrees.
A few minutes later they were on one hundred per cent instrument flying
conditions and the moderate to heavy rain and moderate turbulence
persisted until they missed the eye and flew south for fifteen minutes.
Because they were on instruments and could not see the surface, they
were unable to determine the highest wind velocity in the storm. It was
estimated close to one hundred knots. At this point they noticed that
they had a good drift correction for hitting the center satisfactorily,
so they held the 270 degrees heading, relying on the radar observer to
be able to see the eye on the scope.
Approximately fifteen or twenty minutes later, the radar observer
reported seeing a semi-circular ring of clouds about twenty-five degrees
to the right at about twenty-five miles range. The same kind of ring was
detected to the left, about the same distance, however. Figuring they
had drifted to the right of the center, they elected to intercept the
left center seen on the radar and flew until they received an ill-omened
pressure rise, when it was apparent they had made a wrong choice!
To make sure they were not chasing circular rings of heavy clouds or
false eyes on the scope, they made a turn to 180 degrees and held it
long enough to enable them to see the surface wind. After about ten
minutes they saw the surface and judged the wind to be coming from
approximately west-northwest. They headed back for the center of the
storm with the wind off their left wing, allowing fifteen to twenty
degrees for drift. In approximately fifteen minutes the radar observer
reported the eye as being almost directly ahead. Lieutenant Lykins said:
"At 0906Z (1906 Guam time) we broke out into the most beautiful and
well-defined eye that I have ever seen. It was a perfect circle about
thirty miles in diameter and beautifully clear overhead. The sides
sloped gently inward toward the bottom from twenty-five thousand feet
and appeared to be formed by a solid cloud layer down to approximately
five thousand feet. From one thousand feet to five thousand feet were
tiers of circular cumulus clouds giving the effect of seats in a huge
stadium."
They descended in the eye, made their observations and then prepared to
depart. Lieutenant Lykins continued:
"As we entered the edge of the eye we were shaken by turbulence so
severe that it took both pilots to keep the airplane in an upright
attitude. At times the updrafts and downdrafts were so severe that I was
forced down in my seat so hard that I could not lift my head and I could
not see the instruments. Other times I was thrown against my safety belt
so hard that my arms and legs were of no use momentarily, and I was
unable to exert pressure on the controls. All I could do was use the
artificial horizon momentarily until I could see and interpret the rest
of the instruments. These violent forces were not of long duration
fortunately, for had they been it would have been physically impossible
to control the airplane.
"Since the updrafts and downdrafts were so severe, we were unable to
maintain control of the altitude; all we could do was to hold the
airspeed within limits to keep the airplane from tearing up from too
much speed or from stalling out from too little. After the first few
seconds, we managed to have the third pilot, who was riding on the
flight deck, advance the RPM to 2400 so we could use extra power in the
downdrafts, and so we could start a gradual ascent from the area.
Neither of us at the controls dared leave them long enough to do it
ourselves.
"The third pilot received a lump on his forehead when he struck the rear
of the pilot's seat, and bruised his shoulder from another source in
doing so. Since he had no safety belt, he was thrown all over the flight
deck.
"This area of severe turbulence lasted between five and six minutes and
every second during this time it was all both of us could do to keep the
airplane in a safe attitude and to keep it within safe airspeed limits
and maintain a general heading.
"It is almost impossible for me to describe accurately or to exaggerate
the severity of the turbulence we encountered. To some it may sound
exaggerated and utterly fantastic, but to me it was a fight for life.
"I have flown many weather missions in my thirty months in the 514th
Reconnaissance Squadron, I have flown night combat missions in rough
winter weather out of England, and I have instructed instrument flying
in the States, but never have I even dreamed of such turbulence as we
encountered in typhoon Beverly. It is amazing to me that our ship held
together as it did."
When the severest turbulence subsided the hurricane hunters found they
had gained an altitude of about six thousand feet. At this point they
decided to climb to 10,500 feet and proceed directly to Clark Field. It
was night time and, since they were shaken up pretty badly, this seemed
the most sensible course of action to be taken. They had no way of
knowing the extent of any damage they might have sustained. The engineer
reported that the booster pumps had all gone into high boost; one
generator had quit. The radar observer said that the rear of the
airplane was a mass of rubble from upturned floorboards, personal
equipment, sustenance kits, and such. The flight deck had extra
equipment all over it. In addition, the co-pilot had twisted off a
fluorescent light rheostat switch when the plane hit the turbulence as
he was adjusting it. The radar observer reported his camera had been
knocked to the floor.
After his experience in leaving the eye of Beverly at one thousand five
hundred feet, the lieutenant had one statement to make and he said it
could not be overemphasized.
"An airplane with human beings aboard should never be required to fly
through the eye of a typhoon at an altitude below ten thousand feet. If
a pattern must be flown at one thousand five hundred feet in the storm
area, it should be clearly indicated that the area of the eye be left at
the seven hundred millibar level and the descent be made at a distance
of not less than seventy miles from the center. Full use of radar
equipment should be exercised in avoiding any doubtful areas."
On inspection after landing, the following damage to the airplane was
found: A bent vertical fin, warped flaps, tears in fairing joining the
wing and fuselage, untold snapped rivets on all parts of the airplane,
fuselage apparently twisted, and one unit in the center of the bomb bay
was torn from its mountings.
Reports of this kind leave some doubt as to whether the typhoon actually
is not more violent than the West Indian hurricane.
Another typhoon of extraordinary violence which gave the storm hunters
serious trouble struck Wake Island on September 16, 1952. Wake is a
little island in the Pacific Ocean, a small dot on the map, the only
stopping-place between the Hawaiian Islands, more than two thousand
miles to the eastward, and the Marianas, more than one thousand miles to
the westward. This spot, a stop for Pan American planes, was captured by
the Japanese and then recaptured by the United States in World War II.
When the Korean War opened, military planes used this small island as a
refueling place en route from the Pacific Coast of the United States to
Japan.
Before taking off from Honolulu, the airmen wanted a forecast for this
long route and a report of the weather at Wake. Also, before taking off
from Wake, they asked for a forecast for the trip to the next stop at
Guam, Manila or Tokyo. The military called on the Weather Bureau and
Civil Aeronautics Administration to furnish the weather service and the
communications. They started operations at Wake very soon. By 1952 men
from these two agencies were on the island, some with their wives and
children. The Standard Oil Company and Pan American Airways also had
people there. For the most part, they were housed in quonset-type
structures, but some old pillboxes constructed during the war still
dotted the island and could be used for refuge from typhoons if the
wind-driven seas did not rise high enough to flood them. There were only
three concrete buildings and they were used for offices and storage.
On the morning of September 11, 1952, the Weather Bureau forecaster drew
a low center on his weather chart far to the southeast of Wake. His
analysis was based largely on two isolated ship reports, the only
information available from a one million square-mile ocean area lying to
the east-southeast of his tiny island station. Here was just enough data
to arouse suspicion and alarm that a developing tropical disturbance was
somewhere--anywhere--within this vast expanse of sea and air; but not
enough information to indicate a position, or probable intensity, or
actually to confirm the existence of a well-defined storm.
During the next three days, the question of continuing the low on
successive charts, and the problem of deciding its position, were mostly
matters of guesswork on the part of the Weather Bureau staff at Wake;
there was only one ship report from the critical area during the time.
Then on September 14 the existence of a vortex was established. A single
ship report, together with reports from Kwajalein and Eniwetok, gave
good evidence of cyclonic circulation.
From this time on, until the storm struck at daybreak on the sixteenth,
everybody on the island worried about it, and the weathermen went all
out in tracking it and disseminating information. Meanwhile the
typhoon--which had been named "Olive"--grew into the most destructive
storm to hit Wake since it was first inhabited in 1935. The forecasters'
job was a difficult one because of meager observational data. There were
heartbreaking delays in securing airplane reconnaissance due to
mechanical breakdown that grounded the B-29 stationed at Wake for that
purpose until an engine part could be flown in from Tokyo.
Early on the morning of the sixteenth, strong winds of the typhoon began
to sweep across the island, a very rough sea was breaking on the shores,
and debris was flying through the air. One can easily imagine the alarm
of these people in the vast Pacific, on a tiny island beginning to
shrink as the waters rose, and giving up its soil, rocks, and parts of
buildings to the furious winds, steadily increasing. A large power line
fell across several quonsets just north of the terminal building, and
huge sparks began flying where they touched the Weather Bureau
warehouse.
The account which follows is condensed from the report made by the
Weather Bureau man in charge, Walton Follansbee:
The wind indicators in the Weather Station shorted out early, and
expensive radiosonde and solar radiation equipment was badly burned by
the runaway power. The indicators in the tower, however, remained
operative until the last weatherman abandoned it. They took turns
climbing the tower steps to check the velocities, calling the readings
off over the interphone from tower to weather station. On Follansbee's
last trip to the tower, the strongest gusts observed were eighty-two
miles per hour, although one of the observers had caught gusts to ninety
miles per hour shortly before. The strain on the structure was severe,
and he was happy to get down the stairs safely. Soon afterward, Jim
Champion, observational supervisor, took full responsibility for this
unwanted task. He then reported over the interphone that the wind was
north-northwest at eighty miles per hour with gusts to 110. Follansbee
advised him to abandon the tower. He replied that he believed he was
safer staying there than trying to come down the stairs, which were wide
open to the elements. He was told to use his own judgment, since it was
his life at stake.
Women and children had been taken to the terminal building or other
safer places than the quonsets, which now began to break up. Anybody who
ventured in the open was likely to be blown off his feet and that was
exceedingly dangerous, for the sea was close by, and now and then the
roof of a quonset went off and was carried dangerously across the island
and out to sea. Winds of hurricane force blew the water from the lagoon
which began engulfing the south and east parts of the island. The wind
reached a steady velocity of 120 miles an hour, with gusts up to 142 at
the height of the storm.
By that time, most of the women and children were huddled in the
operations building and they were terrified when the roof went off,
leaving them exposed to the torrential rain and furious winds, but the
walls held. About this time, a report was received from a reconnaissance
plane that had come from Guam and made its way into the center of the
typhoon. The crew put the center about thirty-five miles northeast of
Wake but said the plane was suffering structural damage and was heading
for Kwajalein.
By evening the winds were subsiding and a check showed that owing to
such preparations as they had been able to make and the constant
struggle of all on the island to prevent disaster, not a single life was
lost and no one was seriously injured. Wake Island, however, was a
shambles, and there was very little food not contaminated and
practically no drinking water. The water distillation plant had been
destroyed.
But soon one of the Air Force B-29 planes ordinarily used in typhoon
reconnaissance flew in from Kwajalein and brought three hundred gallons
of water in GI cans lashed to the bomb bays and two tons of rations for
distribution to the battered and hungry people of Wake Island. Before
long, the little island was back in business, serving the big planes on
the way from Hawaii to the Far East.
_13._ GUEST ON A HAIRY HOP
"_On the rushing of the wings of the wind. It is indeed a knowledge
which must be felt to be in its very essence full of the soul of the
beautiful._"
--Ruskin
A hurricane flight which proves to be rougher than usual is known among
the hunters as a "hairy hop." It is an amazing fact that there are men
who want to come down to the airfield when a big storm is imminent and
"thumb a ride." Mostly, they are newspaper reporters, magazine writers,
photographers, civilian weathermen, and radio and television people.
Usually they are accommodated, if they have made arrangements in
advance. Some of these rides have been quiet, like a sightseer's trip
over a city, while others have been "hairy."
One of the first newspapermen to take a ride into a full-fledged
hurricane was Milt Sosin of the Miami _Daily News_. In 1944, Milt read
about men of the Army and Navy who were just beginning to fly into
hurricanes and he became obsessed with the wish to go along. When he
asked for permission, the editor said "No" in a very positive tone. He
could see no point in having a good staff correspondent dropped in the
ocean during a wild ride in a hurricane. Sosin insisted and he was told
to see the managing editor. He did and there was another argument. Sosin
told him, "If I don't, somebody else will and we'll be scooped."
Reluctantly, the managing editor gave permission. But when Sosin asked
the immigration authorities, they said "No. You have no passport, and
you don't know what country you may fall in." They refused. Sosin hung
around and argued. He pointed out that if the plane went down at sea, he
wouldn't need any passport to the place he was going, and they finally
agreed.
Milt Sosin got his wish in full measure on September 13, 1944, in the
Great Atlantic Hurricane which had developed a fury seldom attained,
even in the worst of these tropical giants. It had crossed the northern
Bahamas and was headed northwestward on a broad arc that was to bring
its death-dealing winds to New Jersey, Long Island and New England.
Already we have told the story of Army and Navy planes probing this big
storm, including the pioneering trip by Colonel Wood and others of the
Washington weather staff. At the end of this trip, Sosin was glad to be
back on land and vowed, "Never again!" But, somehow, he still had the
urge to see these storms from the inside and afterward was a frequent
guest of the Navy and Air Force.
One of Sosin's most interesting trips was on September 14, 1947, in a
B-17. They took off from Miami. Al Topel, also from the Miami _Daily
News_, went along to take pictures, and Fred Clampitt, news editor of
Radio Station WIOD, was the other guest. The big hurricane was roaring
toward the Bahamas with steadily increasing fury and the people of
Florida were worried--and for good reason, for three days later it raked
the state from east to west, killing more than fifty people and causing
destruction estimated in excess of one hundred million dollars. By many
observers it was eventually rated as the most violent hurricane between
1944 and 1949.
They ran into it east of the Bahamas. As the plane burrowed its way
through the seething blasts, Sosin wrote in his shaking notebook:
"This airplane feels as if it's cracking up. Ominous crashes in the aft
compartment accompany every sickening lurch and dive as, buffeted by
140-mile-an-hour winds and sucked into powerful downdrafts, the huge
bomber bores through to the core of the storm."
Sosin said that the pilot, Captain Vince Huegele, and the co-pilot,
Lieutenant Don Ketcham, were literally wrestling with the hurricane in
clothes sopping wet from perspiration and, as soon as they came into the
center, began to take off their wet garments. Ketcham had "pealed down
to his shorts before the plane plunged back into the mad vortex."
At this point they were surprised to see another plane in the storm, a
B-29, flying in the eye at thirty-six thousand feet, trying to discover
the "steering level" where the main currents of the atmosphere control
the forward movement of tropical disturbances such as this one. The
radio man, Sergeant Jeff Thornton, was trying to contact the B-29, miles
overhead, but with no luck. Sosin wrote in his notebook:
"But here at this low level we have more to worry about than trying to
reach the other plane. We are getting an awful kicking around. Wow! That
was a beaut. Al Topel was foolish enough to unfasten his safety belt and
stand up for a better angle shot of the raging turbulent sea below. We
must have dropped one hundred feet and his head hit the aluminum ribbing
of the plane's ceiling. Then, trying to protect his camera, he skinned
his elbows and knuckles. Now he's given up and has even strapped a
safety belt around his camera."
The crew was busy plotting positions and checking on the engines. To
them it was an old story, except that none could recall such violent
turbulence. The craft was low enough for them to get glimpses of the sea
but they wanted a better view and they began to descend cautiously.
Sosin wrote:
"The turbulence is getting worse. The sea is streaked with greenish-gray
lines which look like daubs made by a child who has stuck his fingers
into a can of paint. Now we are closed in. We are flying blind. Capt.
John C. Mays, the weather observer, starts giving the pilots readings
from his radar altimeter while Huegele sends the plane lower and lower
in an effort to establish visual contact with the sea.
"'Five hundred feet,' Mays calls into the plane's intercom.
"'OK,' replies the skipper.
"'Four hundred feet.'
"'Roger.'
"'Three-fifty.'
"'Roger.'
"'Two-fifty.'
"'OK.'
"'Two hundred feet,' Mays' voice is still even.
"'OK,' comes Huegele's voice.
"It may be OK with him but it isn't with me. I just found myself tugging
tentatively on the pull toggles which will inflate my 'Mae West' life
jacket if I yank hard enough. I checked a long time ago to make certain
the CO cartridges were where they should be.
"Fred Clampitt, WIOD news editor, is turning green.
"No, it's not fear. He's sweating so much that the colored chemical
shark repellent in a pocket of his life jacket is starting to run.