The Last Flight of the Blue Goose

By Jacques Evans

In 1942 the Blue Goose, a B-24 bomber, disappeared during a routine test flight from an airbase in Florida. After an intensive search, no trace of the plane or crew was ever found. Thirty years later, the copilot's remains were discovered on a remote beach in northern Brazil.

Through happenstance the pilot's son, an engineer at Cape Kennedy, learns of the discovery. As the Apollo program is coming to an end, he decides to investigate his father's disappearance. He locates his father's former commanding officer and together they mount an expedition to Brazil.

In Brazil they find a Luger pistol that leads them to a Luftwaffe pilot who flew with the Condor Legion during the Spanish Civil War. The pilot refuses to cooperate and the investigation reaches a dead end. In 1977 the former Luftwaffe pilot dies in a crash at Tenerife and a bizarre Nazi plot is uncovered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jacques Evans
• Release date: Oct 3, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452307268

Jacques Evans

Jacques Evans retired from the U.S. Air Force and is a life member of the American Society of Mechanical Engineers. He has worked on numerous aerospace projects and spent years at Cape Kennedy as a member of the Apollo team. He is the author of action/adventure novels. His favorite novelists are Nevil Shute and Patrick O'Brian.

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The Last Flight of the Blue Goose

by

Jacques Evans

For the over 88,000 American soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines listed as Missing in Action (MIA) from 1941 to the present.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2003 by Jacques Evans

All rights reserved.

Also by Jacques Evans

Scammed

Fraser's Run

Mizrahi's Prison

South of Cayenne

Kuchma's Dictum

Flight to Dungavel

The Betty G's Gold

The Mannerheim Line

The Czar's Last Soldier

Von Weizsacker's Diary

Last Bridge to Baghdad

Last Flight of the Blue Goose

This book is for personal use only. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior written consent of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a newspaper, magazine or journal article.

This is a work of fiction. All similarities between characters and persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 ~ Florida, California, 1972

Chapter 2 ~ Nebraska, December 1972 - January 1973

Chapter 3 ~ Florida, 1973

Chapter 4 ~ Florida, Brazil, 1973

Chapter 5 ~ Brazil, 1973

Chapter 6 ~ Florida, 1973

Chapter 7 ~ Germany, 1973

Chapter 8 ~ Florida, 1977

Chapter 9 ~ Florida, 1977

Chapter 10 ~ Florida, 1977

Epilogue

Personal Note

Prologue ~ Fort Myers Army Air Base, January 1942

First Lieutenant Carlson's khaki shirt stuck to his skin like glue. The noonday Florida sun beat down on the control tower's corrugated metal roof. Fortunately, all sides of the platform atop the twenty-foot high wooden tower were open. Occasionally, a light breeze filtered through. Carlson leaned over the platform guardrail and watched McCormick, his radio operator, fill their canteens from a Lister bag located in the middle of a line of tents behind the control tower.

A dozen B-24s were parked in a line alongside the single runway in front of the tower. In a wooded maintenance area, at the end of the flight line, stood a lone B-24. Carlson watched Army Air Corps mechanics install the cowling on the B-24's number three engine then push their spindly, rectangular, work stands aside. A mechanic removed the rear chocks then kicked the front chocks firmly against the tires. Another mechanic pushed a two-wheeled fire extinguisher into position beside the number three engine. Two other mechanics entered the aircraft through the open bomb bay doors. In a few minutes, the auxiliary power unit then the number three engine roared to life. Painted on the side of the dune colored aircraft was the name Blue Goose.

Private First Class McCormick climbed the control tower steps. He handed the lieutenant a canteen. After a long drink Carlson said, Tastes like ten-year-old, chlorinated, horse piss.

Lieutenant, you won't be able to get it up for a month. The mess sergeant has orders to load the coffee with saltpeter. Since nobody will drink it, he's putting saltpeter in the water.

The ring of the field phone was barely heard above the sound of the B-24's engine. McCormick took the handset from the canvas carrying case, gave his rank and last name, then listened attentively. He replied, Yes, sir, then stowed the handset. Lieutenant, Operations says they want to test fly 009 at 1400 hours.

Great! That should end our week in the tower. Tomorrow, some other flight crew gets stuck with this shit detail.

For the next few hours, Carlson and McCormick were occupied with three B-25s from Eglin Field that shot take-offs and landings. I wonder why they're practicing short field take-offs here? McCormick asked.

Maybe there's too much traffic at Eglin.

After the B-25s departed, Operations notified Carlson that 009 filed a local clearance for a one-hour test flight. Carlson responded affirmatively to the Blue Goose's request for taxi clearance. A few minutes later, a request for take-off clearance came over the loud speaker. Carlson checked the area, picked up the microphone, pressed the transmit button then replied, 009, you're cleared for take-off.

Roger, 009's rolling, was the reply.

Carlson removed his clipboard from a nail. He penciled in the entries, marked the time as 1406 hours, then initialed the activity log. At 1500 hours, Carlson scanned the sky for the Blue Goose. He spotted a few birds—there were no aircraft in sight. He ordered McCormick to contact the Blue Goose. At least two dozen times McCormick transmitted, 009, this is Fort Myers tower. Over. There was no response. At 1510 hours, Carlson turned the crank of the field telephone and notified Base Operations.

Inside the Operations tent, Captain Murray used the field telephone to notify Lieutenant Colonel McCann, Commanding Officer of the 343rd Bombardment Squadron and acting CO of the newly formed 98th Bombardment Group. McCann jumped into a Jeep parked outside the headquarters tent then drove along a dirt road to Base Operations.

Murray handed the colonel 009's clearance. McCann looked over the flight clearance, noted the names of the crew, estimated time of arrival and fuel load. They couldn't have strayed far from the field. All they had to do was checkout one engine, parallel the generators and swing the compass.

They had a full fuel load. Maybe they headed back to Shreveport for a night on the town, suggested Murray.

McCann winced, I know those guys, they're not screw-ups. Get two planes in the air and have them set up a search pattern for a 200 mile radius. Have one check south, toward the Everglades, and the other to the north. When it gets too dark to search, they can return. Notify the crew in the tower the field will stay open until the last ship lands and they're not to leave their post until I give the word.

Carlson cleared both B-24s for take-off then watched the Liberators climb to cruise altitude. In a clearing in front of the headquarters tent, a bugler blew mess call. The bugler repeated the call on each cardinal heading.

Carlson watched as soldiers, carrying mess kits, ambled toward and formed a single line alongside the field kitchen. After the troops were served, they either sat on the ground or ate standing up with their mess kits resting on a forty-foot flatbed trailer parked nearby. Their supper table was attached to a C-2 wrecker; a crash truck equipped with a large crane. Two large galvanized garbage cans, filled with boiling water, were placed over a carefully laid fire pit. An empty garbage can was placed ahead of the fire pit. After eating, each soldier dumped any remaining scraps into the garbage can then scrubbed his mess kit, utensils and canteen cup in the first can over the fire pit. In the last GI can on the fire pit, the soldiers dipped their mess gear into the boiling water.

McCann listened intently as the search crews were debriefed. Both crews reported negative results. The crews were ordered to get off the ground at first light and try again. McCann told Murray to notify Air Corps Headquarters, at Wright Field, that an aircraft was missing.

For the next two weeks, aircraft from Fort Myers, Eglin and MacDill searched for the Blue Goose. No debris or clues regarding the disappearance of the Liberator ever surfaced.

Captain Murray completed the accident report. He attached true copies of the clearance and tower log plus statements from Carlson, McCormick, the 38th Material Squadron's engine change crew and the inspector who released the aircraft for flight.

Instead of an expected promotion, McCann was relieved and reassigned to England. He wrote personal letters to the next of kin, turned over command to his replacement, a full colonel, then cleared the base.

In April 1942, the B-25s that practiced landings at Fort Myers were part of Jimmy Doolittle's group that bombed Tokyo. Three months later, the newly formed 98th Bombardment Group went on to Palestine then Egypt, Libya, Tunisia and Italy. In time, the flight of the Blue Goose faded from memory.

***

Chapter 1 ~ Florida, California, 1972

Traffic was at a standstill, roads were crammed with parked cars, boats lined the river and jockeyed for a better viewing position. At Kennedy Space Center, the viewing stand was packed with VIPs and anyone else lucky enough to get a pass. As Apollo 17 rose from the launch pad, the roar of the first stage was heard across the state of Florida and on television sets around the world. Millions of eyes followed the exhaust plume as it moved skyward.

Before lift-off, a hold was declared at T minus 2 minutes and 47 seconds. A computer failed to send the command to pressurize the liquid oxygen (LOX) tank in the third stage (S4B) of the Saturn 5. From his console in the firing room, an engineer sent a signal to override the computer and pressurize the S4B LOX tank. But the computer logic did not accept the console command and returned a signal that the S4B was not ready for launch. If the count continued, the gantry swing arms would not retract and the automatic launch sequencer would stop the count at T minus 30 seconds. Once the problem was pinpointed, engineers bypassed the faulty logic circuit. By then it was December 7, thirty-one years after Pearl Harbor.

At 12:33 a.m. EST, following a 2 hour and 40 minute delay, Apollo 17 was launched. Florida residents could see the Saturn 5 engine's exhaust plume from a distance of 250 miles. The command module America and the lunar module Challenger were launched shortly after midnight. It was the first night launch and the last flight of the Apollo program.

The exhaust plume gradually moved out of sight. My job at the Cape was finished and the next few weeks on the job would be my last. Everyone who worked at the Cape found it hard to accept the fact that the Apollo program was coming to an end. The week before, the company gave notice that lay-offs would start immediately after the Apollo 17 splashdown. All employee names were to be placed in a large fish bowl. The first 100 names drawn would be laid off in a week, the next 100 in two weeks and so on until we were all gone. Unlike a lottery, it was something you weren't keen on winning.

To soften the blow, the drawing was scheduled to be held at our company Apollo 17 splashdown party. Splashdown parties are a ritual at the Cape. Outsiders are seldom invited. When they are, they're usually from NASA or some other aerospace company. Anything can happen—and usually does. Splashdown parties are the time to let your hair down after working twelve to sixteen hour days to get the bird off the pad.

As Apollo 17 faded from view I headed for the parking lot, started my car, then joined the stream of traffic heading for Cocoa Beach. When I got to the apartment I share with another engineer, I set the alarm and slept for a few hours. After the alarm went off, I shaved and showered then drove back to the Cape and ate breakfast at the NASA Headquarters cafeteria next door to the Manned Spacecraft Operations Building.

The large bullpen I work in is lined with desks and drawing boards. Sitting like a teacher at the front of the room, our lone secretary tries to juggle requests from the entire twenty-two-man group. Besides fending off potential beaux she has to type, keep track of time cards, and handle administrative minutiae. To make things worse our boss, the chief engineer, sits in a cubicle across the hall and doesn't have a secretary. Our secretary has to trot back and forth to answer the chief's phone. She's the only person in the group who's looking forward to getting laid off.

During the Apollo mission the controllers at Houston take over. There wasn't much for us to do at the Cape except monitor the mission and our systems. We sat around and followed the mission on television screens. It was a good time to prepare resumes and catch up on our reading. Some of our more innovative chaps composed and circulated bogus company memos. One classic by an anonymous author, a well-known senior engineer, read:

Subject: Reduction-in-Force

To: All Engineering Personnel

From: Director of Personnel

As a result of a declining workload management must, of necessity, take steps to reduce the engineering work force. A Reduction-in-Force (RIF) plan has been developed that appears to be the most equitable under the circumstances. Under the RIF plan, only the most senior engineers will be released; thus, the company will retain the services of all junior engineers. This action will place the company in a better industry-wide competitive position. Therefore, a program to phase out senior engineers fifteen (15) to forty-five (45) days after the Apollo 17 splashdown will be placed into effect immediately.

The program shall be known as, Release Aged Personnel Early (RAPE). Employees who have been RAPED will be given the opportunity to transfer into other divisions of the company. While they are being RAPED, they may request a review to ascertain if their technical expertise is transferable. This phase of the operation shall be called, Survey of Capabilities of Released Engineering Workforce (SCREW).

All engineers who have been RAPED and SCREWED may also apply for a final review fifteen (15) days after release. This phase of the program shall be called, Study by Higher Authority Following Termination (SHAFT).

Corporate policy dictates that engineers may be RAPED once and SCREWED twice. They may get the SHAFT as many times as management deems appropriate.

cc: All Engineering Branches

I wrote a paragraph for my resume, cleaned out one of my desk drawers, then looked for something else to do. Beneath a conference table, beside the secretary's desk, sat a pile of newspapers. We had employees from all over the country. Many of them had subscriptions to their hometown papers. If you subscribed to a hometown paper, when you finished reading it you tossed it on the stack. Most were weeklies. Usually, we read them at lunchtime. They provided a lot of laughs and sometimes furnished raw material for some good-natured ribbing. As I don't write well enough to produce top-notch bogus memos, I grabbed a handful of hometown papers. In a couple, there were articles about 4H clubs and other local stuff. Then, in a Nebraska weekly paper, I ran across an article that grabbed my attention it read:

WORLD WAR II AIRMAN BURIED AFTER 30 YEARS

by Melissa Jackson

Standard Staff Writer

For 30 years, the family of a World War II veteran who was reported missing and presumed dead never knew where his body was located. On Friday, Tech. Sgt. Gerald R. Schaffer was finally laid to rest at Ft. Leavenworth's National Cemetery. His remains were discovered by a Brazilian surveying team on a remote beach in northeastern Brazil.

Schaffer, the copilot, and two other men aboard the B-24 were listed as missing when their aircraft failed to return from a routine flight in January 1942. Schaffer was one of the few enlisted pilots on duty with the US Army Air Corps at the time. Schaffer's remains were interred in the military cemetery with an honor guard and a 21-gun salute.

After all these years we were finally able to bury him. My only wish is that my parents were here, said George Schaffer of Oxford, Nebraska, Sgt. Schaffer's sole surviving brother.

According to military authorities, approximately 78,000 American military personnel are still listed as missing in action from World War II. Pentagon officials say it is rare to find the remains of a missing serviceman so long after World War II.

I knew little about my father, William Canada. He was born in 1910 and was presumed dead in January 1942; at the time, I was two years old. I knew he liked to hunt, was a regular army first lieutenant, and was officially listed as missing and presumed dead in a plane crash near Fort Myers, Florida. My mother said I looked just like him. His pictures showed he had dark hair and was about six inches taller than my mother. That put him close to my height, just under six feet. While he wasn't particularly handsome, he did have a kind of rugged, nice guy look. A War Department telegram and several old letters my mother kept indicated that the army never found the plane or bodies of the crew.

As a boy, I read the letters many times. One that really caught my attention was signed by a Lieutenant Colonel William G. McCann. His letter was engraved in my memory as were the names of the engineer, Sergeant Bataglio, and the copilot, Sergeant Schaffer. Although I never mentioned it to my mother, as a boy I played imaginary games in which they all took part. Since I was almost out of a job, didn't have a wife to support and had a pot of severance pay coming, I decided to take the time and find out what I could about my father's death.

After I compiled a list of questions to ask George Schaffer, I grabbed the telephone and dialed information knowing, of course, that the company frowned on long distance personal calls. A young boy answered the phone. He told me his father would be back in about an hour. I left my name and said I'd call back later. My next call was to the reporter under whose byline the newspaper article appeared. When she got on the line, I expected to hear a mid-western twang; instead, I heard a Southern accent. I introduced myself and explained my interest in the Schaffer article. How did you get the story? I asked.

There are very few secrets in a town this size, she replied.

When I asked a few questions, it was apparent that she had no information beyond what appeared in the article. I'll be in Nebraska in a few weeks, I told her, I'd like to stop by, if you don't mind.

She said she wouldn't mind and asked me to repeat my name. Caisson Canada, I replied.

After I reached George Schaffer he had some questions of his own. When I went through my list and got to the 'How did your brother get to Brazil?' question, Schaffer replied, I know they took off from Fort Myers on a local flight. My guess is they ditched the plane, got into life rafts, and eventually wound up in Brazil. They might have been picked up by a ship that sank off the coast of Brazil.

Sounds reasonable, I mentioned I'd be in Nebraska in a few weeks and asked if he would mind if I stopped by.

Great! he answered, Let me know when you're in town.

After some mulling, I decided to call the