Читать книгу Flight of the Forgotten - Mark A. Vance - Страница 29

The main impact point at the loch itself was the emotional center of the investigation, but most of the work was actually done elsewhere. The dozens of square miles of terrain encircling the crash site had to be combed for evidence. That meant a detailed search of surrounding hilltops, grassy fields and thick rain-drenched forests that rivaled their counterparts in South America.

A check of the high ridge above the main impact point had shown no evidence of scarring, and it was obvious the aircraft’s pitch-down angle at impact exceeded 70 degrees, a virtual plunge. The force of the big bomber hitting the ground that day tore through the shallow water and silt instantly, as the B-24 disintegrated against the solid rock layer only a few feet below the surface of the loch. To this day, the loch remains a place where sudden violent death seems to hang in the air like the morning mist.

The natural beauty of the scenery contrasted with this violence is what I remember most about Scotland. The men’s presence was so strong at the main impact point that I felt it necessary to offer an explanation before actually moving any piece of the wreckage. “I’m checking this piece because I need to see if … or for any sign of …” I kept repeating over and over. To stand there with a dry eye was a challenge few could meet. I recall the expression on my mother’s face as she finally realized her goal of visiting the place that had caused our family so much pain. It was as if all her memories came flooding back then and with them the tears. My father, who had witnessed so much death and destruction in that same war, was overwhelmed by the incredible sadness that envelops the loch. It is an incredibly haunting sadness that reaches deep inside you every minute you’re there and cries out desperately for help.

Early the next morning, working alone, I began the all-important search of the adjoining terrain around the crash site for clues left there years before I was born. Each grid on my map was twelve square miles across and had to be worked as carefully as if I’d lost a contact lens. Several square miles of the search area were underwater and had to be disregarded. One loch in particular, several miles in diameter and hundreds of feet deep, was no doubt the final resting place for many pieces of “Army 5095” as it blew-up in the air above it. Those items, however, are lost forever without advanced submersible equipment and I was forced to concentrate the search on solid terrain.

It was truly like hunting for a needle in a haystack. Even my metal detectors were of limited use in the marshy terrain. Many clues were probably right there under my nose, but it didn’t take long to realize that it might take years to find them. I needed help with the search beyond what this world could offer. I needed the other side. There was just too much ground to cover and too little time.

Not long after that thought occurred to me, I saw a figure in the distance motioning to me very dramatically, calling my name and trying to get my attention. I didn’t recognize him at first, but he seemed to know exactly who I was and appeared intent on directing me toward something. Approaching him slowly, I noticed he was dressed in an American military uniform and leather flying jacket.

“What is it?” I asked as I walked toward him cautiously.

“Over here!” he shouted.

“What do you want?”

“Right here!” he repeated, pointing down at the ground.

“Right here, what?”

“Look!” he encouraged.

“Yeah, yeah, okay …” I grunted, kneeling down to examine the item. “It looks like some kind of Plexiglas.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It must have fallen as one piece and then split apart.” I said.

“That’s exactly right.”

“Wait a second …” I said, turning the item over and examining its other side. “It’s been heat seared.”

“Yes. There was an explosion.” he insisted.

“An explosion?” I echoed.

“An airborne explosion!” he repeated.

“What kind of airplane?” I asked, concerned there might be more than one airplane and how that would complicate the investigation.

“A B-24.” he replied.

“A B-24? How do you know that?”

“Because I was there.”

“You were …?” I stammered, eyeing him again carefully. “Who are you? What are you doing here and where did you get that pilot’s uniform?” I demanded. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

“My name is Jack Ketchum. I got the uniform when I joined the Army Air Corps. and it’s no joke.” he replied, smiling solemnly.

“Jack Ketch …?” I gasped, stunned.

“I was an aircraft commander, just like you.” he said softly. “I’m going to help you find what you need.” he announced, still smiling.

“What … what about my uncle? Where’s Buster?” I asked awkwardly.

“He sent me. He thought it was important for us to talk, aircraft commander to aircraft commander. Come on. I’ve got a lot to show you.” he urged, turning and heading across the open field as I stood motionless, reeling from the encounter.

“You coming, Captain?” he asked as I recovered from the shock enough to grasp the Plexiglas and follow a few steps behind him.

“How do I know it’s …?” I tried to ask.

“How do you know it’s me, you mean? Well, don’t you remember? I saw you at Bradley Field that night in the rain.” he replied, walking briskly toward the distant forest.