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DECEMBER 5, 1945
East Coast of Florida
1545 Hours / 3:45 P.M.
Flight 19—Avenger Torpedo Bomber Squadron of Five
“Powers. Respond.” Lieutenant Charles Taylor’s voice carried with it an uncharacteristic hint of stress. “Powers? Powers? What is your reading?” the seasoned pilot continued. After one minute and thirteen seconds of radio static, Lieutenant Taylor brought the handset up to his mouth about to try again.
The static was broken. “I don’t know where we are. We must have gotten lost after that last turn.” Captain E.J. Powers, piloting FT–36, sounded frightened. “Coordinates unknown.”
Taylor pushed the button on the side of the handset in, “Repeat. Repeat last transmission.”
Communication between the two pilots was once again lost to static.
***
THE RADIO TRANSMISSIONS were picked up by Lieutenant Cox flying FT-74. He adjusted the dials of the radio, trying to tune in to the last transmissions from the lost pilots. “This is Flight Instructor Lieutenant Robert Cox receiving on 4805 kilocycles. Please repeat.” Lieutenant Cox released the button on the side of the microphone handset and listened. He had been searching the airwaves for the last hour in hopes that the group of five Avenger Torpedo Bombers in route from a bombing practice run at Hens and Chicken Shoals north of Bimini in the Bahamas, would once again be in communication.
Static.
“I repeat on 4805 kilocycles,” Lieutenant Cox spoke slowly and clearly. “This is FT–74, plane or boat calling Powers. Please identify yourself so someone can help you.”
Static.
“Do you read me?”
Static.
Then, suddenly, the hard Latin beat of percussion and horns, and the clear sounds of Musica Cubana filled FT–74’s cockpit, a common occurrence when flying near the island nation of Cuba. Lieutenant Cox adjusted the dial on the radio, fading out the Cuban music station and then back into 4805 kilocycles and a hopeful response from Powers.
Static.
“This is FT-74. What is your trouble?” Lieutenant Cox hesitated then repeated, “This is FT–74. What is your trouble?”
This time the static was broken.
“This is FT-28,” Lieutenant Taylor, piloting the aircraft flying in formation to Captain Powers, responded. “Both of my compasses are out and I’m trying to find Fort Lauderdale. I’m over land but it’s broken. I’m sure I’m in the Keys but I don’t know how far down and I don’t know how to get to Fort Lauderdale.” Lieutenant Taylor was clearly rattled. He had flown the area in and around Fort Lauderdale and Miami for the past six months. He knew the territory well from both on the land and above it.
“FT–28? This is FT–74,” Lieutenant Cox said, trying to disguise the concern in his voice. “Put the sun on you port wing, if you are in the Keys, and fly up the coast until you come to Miami.” He paused for a response, when none came he continued, “Fort Lauderdale is 20 miles further, your first port after Miami. The air station is directly on your left from the port.” Lieutenant Cox waited for a response from the pilot of FT–28. After several minutes of silence, he radioed again. “What is your present altitude? I will fly south and meet you,” he said hoping that Powers, Taylor or the pilots of the four Avengers that were flying with them, would pick up and respond to the broadcast.
“I know where I am now,” Lieutenant Taylor radioed back. “I’m at 2300 feet. Don’t come after me.” The Lieutenant was beginning to sound more at ease.
“You’re at 2300? I’m coming to meet you anyhow,” Lieutenant Cox said, ignoring the request of Lieutenant Taylor and turned the Avenger Torpedo Bomber he was piloting south, fixing a course to meet up with the lost Avenger FT–28 and the squadron somewhere in the Florida Keys.
All seemed well. The lost squadron of Torpedo Bombers was heading north over the Florida Keys and Lieutenant Cox was heading south to meet them. The distance wasn’t great and the aircraft should be in visual contact within a few minutes.
The radio remained silent.
Minutes later. “This is FT–28 calling FT–74,” Lieutenant Taylor said, with the recent ease being replaced with intense fear. He didn’t try to hide it from the squadron to the side of him or to Lieutenant Cox. “We have just passed over a small island.” His voiced trembled. “We have no other land in sight.”
Lieutenant Cox hesitated before responding, contemplating where the lost squadron—four of which had a crew of three and one with a crew of two—were. “No other land in sight,” he repeated the words of Lieutenant Taylor aloud. If the Avenger had no other land in sight, they were far beyond the Keys, he thought. He was beginning to have serious doubts about the lost squadron.
“FT–74, this is FT–28. Can you have Miami...someone turn on their radar gear and pick us up? We don’t seem to be getting far.” Lieutenant Taylor fought to maintain control of his growing panic—he was losing. “We were out on a navigation hop and on the second leg I thought they were going wrong, so I took over and was flying them back to the right position. But I’m sure now, that neither of my compasses are working.”
“You can’t expect to get here in ten minutes. You have a 30 to 35 knot head or crosswind,” Lieutenant Cox radioed in an attempt to calm the pilot and the crews listening in. “Turn on your emergency IFF gear. Or, do you have it on?”
“FT–74. We did not have the Identification Friend or Foe gear on,” Captain E.J. Powers, piloting FT–36 to the side of Taylor’s aircraft broke in. “I’m at angles three point five. Have on emergency IFF. Does anyone in the area have a radar screen that could pick us up?”
“This is Air Sea Rescue Task Unit Four at Fort Everglades.” The land based rescue operations unit had picked up the transmission and radioed to the lost Avengers. “FT–28 we will notify NAS Miami.” A moment later, Air Sea Rescue Task Unit Four continued, “FT–28, is there another plane in the flight with a good compass. Can they take over?”
“ASRTU-4, this is FT–28. No one can take over. We are all lost. Headings unknown.” The transmission started to break up. “Position unknown. No help.”
“FT–28, this is FT–74.” Lieutenant Cox raised his voice to a shout, “Your transmissions are fading. Something is wrong. Something’s wrong. What is you altitude?”
Through static, FT–28 responded, the signal growing faint and nearly lost, “I’m at 4500 feet. Visibility 10 miles...”
And then, silence.
***
THREE HOURS AND FORTY-seven minutes later, “Training 49, Lieutenant Jeffrey, this is Navel Air Station Banana River, come in.”
“NAS Banana River, this is Martin Mariner, Lt. Jeffrey, on Training 49, roger.”
“Training 49 proceed to New Smyrna and track eastward,” the radio attendant at NAS Banana River gave the coordinates in a clipped tone.
“NAS Banana River, this is Lt. Jeffrey on Training 49. Will head south, then track eastward and attempt to intercept Flight 19.” Lieutenant Jeffrey was matter-of-fact. This was not the first air- sea search for him and his crew of thirteen aboard the Martin Mariner. The plane could fly all night, 12 hours or more on a full tank. It was powerful enough to take off and land on water, as well as on a runway. The Martin Mariner was a massive flying machine at well over 14,000 pounds. And this Mariner, Training 49, was the temporary home to the five pilots and eight crewmen aboard.
Like Lieutenant Jeffrey, the rest of the crew had anticipated an easy few days, until they would all be heading home for Christmas. Most in the Combat Air Training Program at Banana River hadn’t been home since beginning the program in September of 1944. Now, as the end of 1945 grew near, the crew grew restless.
The seas below the Mariner—Training 49, had become very rough as the front moved in. The ceiling was overcast, visibility dropping from 1200 to 800 feet, winds picking up at 25 to 30 knots, west southwest. The crew strapped themselves into their seats, snapping the seat belt’s fasteners into buckles and pulling them tight. The air around Training 49 became increasingly more turbulent.
NAS Fort Lauderdale, just over 150 miles to the south, the Navel Air Station that was home to the five Avenger Torpedo Bombers that made up the now lost Flight 19, was reporting weather calm and clear.
It was evident to Lieutenant Jeffrey that the weather front had not made it up to Fort Lauderdale. He checked his watch. With the front approaching, he didn’t have much time to find the lost squadron. He and the crew had been airborne for approximately three minutes. He was just about to make a turn south and attempt an intercept with the missing five Avenger Torpedo Bombers. “NAS Banana River, this is Training 49 reporting.”
“Training 49, this is NAS Banana River, come in.”
No answer.
“Training 49, this is NAS Banana River, come in.” The voice of the seaman at the Navel Air Station was steady. “Training 49, this is NAS Banana River, come in.” His third attempt and still nothing.
Lieutenant Jeffrey in the Martin Mariner—Training 49, and his crew of thirteen, did not respond.
And there was no response from any of the five pilots or the crews of the five Avenger Torpedo Bombers.
There was only silence.
Six planes.
Twenty seven men.
Vanished.
No radio contact would ever come.
Not a trace of any plane would ever be found.
Not one body would ever be discovered.
They were there...and then...they were not.