Part 22

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.