On the evening of November 9, the weather was forecast to be clear enough for us to leave the next day. We packed that night and early the next morning went to the flight line hoping that the forecast was correct. The meteorologist said that the sky would be clear for the first half of the 550-mile trip, but then we would run into a solid overcast at about 25,000 feet, which would gradually lower to 10,000 feet over our destination, Fairbanks. We decided that by flying at 35,000 feet until we ran into the overcast and then staying just below it until we reached Fairbanks, we would have a safe fuel reserve.
After takeoff, all went as planned for the first half of the flight, and the overcast appeared precisely as forecast. Soon, however, we found that we were descending much quicker than planned and were below 10,000 feet with about 150 miles to go. Fairbanks was still reporting a 10,000-foot ceiling, so since we didn't have enough fuel to get back to Whitehorse, we continued on course, hoping for the best. The ceiling kept dropping, and it began to snow heavily, further reducing the already poor visibility. Soon we were flying at only a few hundred feet following the Alcan Highway, which fortunately paralleled our course. We slowed down a bit to make it easier to follow the curves. The snow was so heavy that we were considering landing on the highway if we couldn't get through to Big Delta, an airfield about 85 miles from Fairbanks. Just when I was considering getting into the kneeling position, I spotted the field. We circled once to make sure the runways were clear, forgoing our usual high-speed pass, and landed. I don't think that any two Floridians were ever so happy to be on snow-covered ground.
The field appeared to be deserted, but the runways had been cleared of all but the snow that was falling. We taxied to the front of the hangar and climbed out, barely resisting the impulse to follow Pope John Paul II's deplaning routine, but were afraid we might freeze our lips kissing the snow. Leaving the engines running, we entered the hangar through a small door and found it empty but well heated. We were able to open the main doors, climb back into the cockpits, taxi into the hangar, shut off the engines, and close the doors. Shortly thereafter, a member of the caretaker force appeared, saying he hadn't expected anyone to be flying in such rotten weather.
A phone in the hangar connected directly with base operations at Ladd Field, and we reported that we were down safely at Big Delta. Colonel Muldoon came on the line and said, "What in the hell took you so long? Did you taxi here from Eglin?" He added that he would be down as soon as the weather cleared with fuel and a starting unit. A few hours later the snow stopped, and we had a ceiling of about 10,000 feet. Colonel Muldoon came in with a C-46, bringing the fuel and the P-80 crew chiefs who had been impatiently awaiting our arrival at Ladd. They discovered that Barney's electrical system had a short that had drained his battery; while that was being repaired my plane was refueled. As soon as it was ready, Colonel Muldoon said I should leave immediately and Barney would follow as soon as possible.
For some reason, probably the 25-below-zero temperature, I started the engine in the hangar with the doors closed, and when the engine lit up several windows shattered. I hurriedly taxied out and took off for Ladd before Muldoon could make me replace the windows. About fifteen minutes later, after the final obligatory low pass (I had done so many lately that I thought of changing the pronunciation of my name to lo-pass), I landed at Fairbanks, ready at long last to begin the cold-weather tests. Barney landed an hour or so later, and our seemingly endless journey was finally over. It had taken us twenty-three days, but only eleven hours and fifteen minutes of that time had been in the air. Most of the delay was due to ferry command rules prohibiting weather flying and night flying.
Today an F-14, 15, or 16 could make the trip with one refueling in less than six hours; an SR-71 could make it in about two hours.
9
Cold-Weather Testament
The specifications for Army Air Force aircraft required that they be capable of operation in all temperatures from minus 65 to 120 degrees Fahrenheit. The mission of the cold-weather test detachment was to determine if the aircraft and support equipment could meet the low-temperature end of this requirement. Accordingly, since 1942, all new types of aircraft and equipment were sent to Ladd Field in Fairbanks each winter season, roughly October through February, and put through their paces. In addition to the facilities at Ladd Field, there was a complete range for bombing and gunnery testing about thirty miles from Ladd at Blair Lake.
Besides our P-80s, the test aircraft included a North American P-51H Mustang, a North American P-82 Twin Mustang, a Republic P-47N Thunderbolt, a Fairchild C-82 Flying Boxcar, a Boeing B-29 Superfortress, and a Sikorsky R-5 and an R-6, both helicopters. Lieutenant Colonel Muldoon commanded the flying test group, and Colonel Shanahan, from the armament lab at Wright Field, commanded the detachment. Colonel Shanahan was a well-respected armament specialist with a great deal of experience in arctic operations. The other groups of the detachment were testing clothing and ground equipment such as starting units, portable heaters, and motor vehicles.
Most of the pilots were from the flight test group at Eglin, so I felt right at home. Capt. Brad Brown was the helicopter pilot, Capt. Leonard Koehler flew the P-47, Capt. Lippy Lipscomb flew the Mustang, and Captains Jim Bauer and Joe Cotton flew the B-29. The P-82 pilot was Lieutenant Colonel Buchert from Wright Field. Barney Turner and I had the P-80s, and Barney had the additional duty of operations officer.
In addition to the AAF detachment, an Army Ground Forces group, Task Force Frigid, was there to test tanks, trucks, artillery, and other equipment. Our detachment would support the task force with aircraft when required.
The permanent buildings at Ladd were well designed for the climate. They were connected by tunnels that housed the steam pipes and sheltered personnel traffic. The officer's quarters, in the hospital building, were roomy, well furnished, and warm. There were not enough rooms for all the officers, however, so only majors and above were accommodated. Captains and below were housed in Quonset huts that were connected in pairs by a latrine. No doubt these huts were perfectly satisfactory in a normal winter, but the winter of 1946-47 was anything but normal; it was the coldest ever recorded in Alaska to that time. The temperature dropped to 67 below zero one day, and there were several days in the minus sixties. For a stretch of about ten days, it never rose above minus 50. In a nearby town with the unlikely name "Snag," the temperature hit 83 below. On the good side, there was virtually no wind, so windchill was not a problem. Task Force Frigid sent a powerful message back to Army Ground Forces headquarters by way of a photograph of the new cold-weather lubricant that had been sent there to be tested. In the photograph, a soldier with an axe was chopping a piece of it off a solid block.
The Quonsets were heated by kerosene-burning space heaters that were less than adequate on the coldest days, since the space they heated shrank as the outside temperature dropped. We junior officers had to move the beds closer and closer to the heaters, somewhat reminiscent of Boy Scouts around a campfire. A bottle of Vitalis hair tonic (with a high alcohol content) that was out of the circle of heat froze solid one night. The Vitalis wasn't mine (I had a crew cut), but anyone with the wet look would have had the ice look in that climate.