Colonel Kleckner had slightly less than two months to go on his own tour, but he still had not released the information that the B-17 had been permanently grounded. His playing for time had been at least partially successful; more than thirty percent of the rebuilders had left the base and those who remained had probably drawn their own conclusions. When he checked his personnel charts, the colonel saw that in another three weeks he would lose four of his best NCO’s, all of whom had elected to return to civilian life. They were experienced and valuable career men, but they had had it with the Air Force and they did not mind saying so.
In six weeks a major segment of Det. 4 would be replaced en masse; one week after that Sergeant Feinberg would be on the outbound list. The two C-130 crews were intact and no orders had been cut to relieve them; the Army was still busy at Camp Century and some colder-weather experiments had been scheduled.
At 1535 hours on Thursday afternoon, Angelo in Base Weather put out a notification of a probable incoming phase. New personnel were immediately rebriefed on the exact meaning of Arctic storms and of the acute danger that they represented. Once again the story was told of the cook who had attempted to run from one building to another ninety feet distant during a Phase Two without bothering to put on his arctic clothing. His frozen body had been recovered by rescue crews a few hours later.
Phase Alert was declared at 2120 hours. The temperature was plummeting and the winds were growing rapidly into howling intensity. Announcement of Phase One conditions followed eighteen minutes later. The base movie at once shut down, the library closed, and all personnel were advised to return to their quarters without delay. The base taxi service went into high gear to get everyone delivered in minimum time.
At 2210 hours conditions had deteriorated drastically and the weather section declared Phase Two. In Building 708 the command post was opened and the head count of all persons at Thule was activated. By that time the raging storm outside was hammering against the well-protected windows, and the more experienced hands knew that a full-flung Phase Three was a definite possibility. The Trackmaster crews were already with their vehicles, ready to respond to any calls for rescue assistance.
Four men who had been in a six-pack truck en route from J Site were the cause of concern until they phoned in that they had, per regulations, taken shelter in one of the phase shacks along the road. After a check with Weather, the colonel dispatched a Trackmaster to recover them and bring them back to base.
The head count was completed in thirty-nine minutes; everyone had been accounted for. Lieutenant Kane, the Transportation Officer, shut down the last of the taxi service and ordered all vehicles off the roads until further notice — rescue equipment excepted.
At two minutes after midnight the PA system came on with the expected announcement that Phase Three was in effect. The rage of the Arctic weather took complete command of Thule and no one dared to venture outside for any reason whatsoever. The Army detachment reported from Camp Century that everything had been secured as far as possible and that all personnel were safe in their barracks under the ice.
In his own quarters, the colonel found it hard to sit still. He had a pile of work with him, but none of it was urgent. Thule was his command and he was responsible for it in every respect that dealt with the United States Air Force, but he was still grateful that he would not have to go through another year facing the grimness and the isolation of the extreme Arctic.
He thought about the immense amount of work that had gone into Operation Penguin and the acute disappointment that had been handed down to the men who had given so much of themselves to accomplish the near impossible. He would have enjoyed his tour a great deal more if it had not been for that.
He called Weather and asked Angelo for an indication as to the duration of the storm. The reply he got was not encouraging: Phase Three would be in effect for at least another eight hours and very likely much longer than that. It was highly doubtful that the rotator would be able to come in on time or take out the relieved personnel on schedule. Thule, J Site, P Mountain, and certainly Alert, more than four hundred miles still farther north, were all catching hell and the end was not in sight.
In the morning the phase rations were broken out. In Building 708 the food was not too bad since most of the men had refrigerators in their rooms and usually a hot plate or small grill of some kind. Coffee, hot cocoa, fried-ham sandwiches, and a good many other things were to be had. Everything was shared and the enforced day off was made as livable as possible. Det. 4 had its usual poker game going; Frank Tilton was busy at the typewriter putting together something he did not choose to discuss; Major Valen was preparing his sermon for the following Sunday. After an impromptu meal of phase rations was finished, the evening broke down into an assortment of minor personal activities. Most of the men went to bed early and thought about home.
Shortly before 1200 hours the following day, five of the men of Det. 4 tapped on the door of the colonel’s quarters. Invited to enter and sit down, they made themselves as comfortable as possible on what chairs there were, and on the edges of the few pieces of furniture.
“Colonel,” Tom Collins began. “We’ve been waiting a helluva long time to hear some further news about the Penguin. Norton turned us down again, is that right?”
“Yes,” Colonel Kleckner admitted, “and they won’t reconsider the matter. I tried everything I could think of, and got in touch with some pretty good personal friends, but I couldn’t move them. The bird is grounded.”
“Permanently, we take it.”
“I’m afraid so. They’ve recommended that we disassemble her and ship her out by sea to Wright-Pat for inclusion in the Air Force museum.”
“How long ago, sir?”
“Actually, quite some time. But no convenient vessel seemed to put into port when the water was open. At least not after I got the final message.”
“Then we’re busted.”
“Yes.”
“Does Scotty Ferguson know this?” Ron Cunningham asked.
The colonel shook his head. “I haven’t told him so directly.”
John Schoen was grim. “It’s going to tear him up,” he said. “I’m sure he’s guessed, but… damn it to hell.”
“I agree,” the colonel responded. “It’s like that sometimes.”
Bob Seligman spoke up. “Colonel, we pretty much concluded that this was the case. When this storm is over, we’re going to throw one hell of a party in honor of the Penguin anyway. At the club. Will you come?”
“Positively. At least we can unveil the painting and hang it properly.”
“That’s what we had in mind,” Seligman said.
By mid-afternoon of the following day the storm was stepped down to Phase Two. That in itself offered very little additional liberty, but it was an indication that the mess hall might be open that night. The colonel called Weather once more and was told that he could expect a downgrade to Phase One sometime around 1800 hours. As soon as he had that information, he called Commander Kure and relayed it; the commander in turn advised that if the forecast held up, a hot meal would be prepared for all hands as soon as the storm had abated to Phase One intensity.
The forecast was good; Phase One was declared at 1815 and very shortly thereafter Thule once more began to show signs of external life. The storm was still powerful, but vehicles were able to crawl cautiously down the roads and the mess hall was ablaze with bright lights.