A gallant barque with magic virtue graced,Swift at our will with every wind to fly;So that no changes of the shifting sky,No stormy terrors of the watery waste,Might bar our course,—Dante
A gallant barque with magic virtue graced,
Swift at our will with every wind to fly;
So that no changes of the shifting sky,
No stormy terrors of the watery waste,
Might bar our course,
—Dante
After two years of probing tropical storms by air, nearly everybody connected with the operation agreed that it was hazardous. But most of the men who were active in it had one main idea. As soon as the winds, rain, clouds, seas, and calm center of the average hurricane had been thoroughly mapped, a standard method should be devised for flying into the center and getting the vitally needed weather information en route with the least possible danger to the craft and crew. They thought of something like a football team, each man highly trained in a definite job, with faultless teamwork, and all members of the crew on the alert every moment.
Courses of instruction were organized. In all of them one fact became abundantly clear in the first two years. No twohurricanes are exactly alike. All of them are big compared with thunderstorms and tornadoes, but some are much larger than others. The recco crew may run into one in the uncertain stages of formation and at other times they may be nosing into an old storm with strange and unsymmetrical parts. Of certain elements they were reasonably sure—all these storms have clouds, rain, squalls, and central low pressure, with strong winds spiraling more or less regularly in a direction against the motions of the hands of a clock.
With these thoughts in mind, the instructors tried to devise methods that would prevent accidents. “What do you mean, accidents?” asked a junior weather officer at one of the conferences. “The whole thing is just one big accident, if you ask me. There’s only one rule that’s any good. Just be careful and don’t fall in the ocean!” As a matter of fact, most of the rules had that one vital thought in mind, but there were different ways of doing it.
The Air Corps and Navy soon developed their own special methods. From the beginning the Navy preferred the low-level method; that is, they flew by the quickest route to the calm center of the storm, going in at a low level, generally at an elevation between three hundred and seven hundred feet. There are good reasons for this. Weather information—especially the facts they want about tropical storms—is vital to the safe operation of surface ships such as cruisers, destroyers and mine sweepers, and it is also used in the movement of aircraft from and to the decks of carriers. Task forces want to know about the speed and direction of winds at sea level, as well as the condition of the sea when storms are imminent.
It was the aim of the Navy to keep their weather reconnaissance aircraft below the level of clouds, where the aerologist could watch the surface of the sea as much of the time as is possible within the limits of reasonably safe operation.When in a tropical storm, the aerologist guided the pilot around or into the center. Down near the water, say one hundred to three hundred feet altitude, turbulence is apt to be very bad, sometimes extremely violent. Above seven hundred feet, clouds are likely to interfere and this was extremely dangerous at that altitude in those early years because the altimeter which they used to indicate height of the aircraft by pressure of the atmosphere was sometimes badly in error in a tropical storm. If the pilot and the aerologist lost sight of the water’s surface for a few minutes, they suddenly found the aircraft about to strike the precipitous waves of a storm-lashed sea.
Pressure of the atmosphere falls with increase of elevation, roughly one inch drop in pressure for each one thousand feet. If we put an ordinary barometer reading 29.90 inches in a plane on the ground and go up one thousand feet, it will read about 28.90 inches. The pressure altimeter is a special type of barometer that shows elevation instead of pressure. When the pressure is 29.90 inches and the altimeter is set at 0, we go up to where the pressure is 28.90 inches and it reads one thousand feet. But if the pressure over the region falls to 28.90 inches and the altimeter is not adjusted, it will read one thousand feet at the ground and be roughly one thousand feet in error when we go up to where the reading is 27.90 inches.
In ordinary weather, big changes in the barometer take place slowly and there usually is plenty of time for correction. In a flight into a hurricane, big changes take place rapidly. The change caused by the plane going up may be confused with the drop in pressure in the hurricane. If the plane is in the clouds when these changes take place, the pilot may have a frightening surprise on coming into the clear again. More recently, the hunters have been equipped with radar altimeters which give the absolute altitude forcheck. They send a radar pulse downward and it is bounced back from the sea surface to the instrument. The time it takes to go down and back depends on the height—the higher, the longer it takes—and the instrument is designed to give the indication very accurately in feet. Thus, the radar altimeter removed some of the dangers of low level flight.
So the Navy hunters moved in at low levels, preventing the “mush from becoming a splash” as they put it, and although their experienced pilots were marvelously efficient in flying on instruments in clouds or “on the gauges,” they kept the white welter of the storm-lashed sea in view whenever possible. Of course, it is not possible to fly straight into a storm center. The big winds carry the plane with them and so the pilot might as well use the winds to good advantage—he will go with them to some extent, whether he likes it or not.
If we imagine ourselves in the center of the hurricane, facing forward along the line of motion of the storm itself—not the motion of the winds around the center—we know that the safest sector to fly in is behind us on our left, and the worst is in front of us on our right. At the left rear, there is likely to be better weather—less dense cloudiness and not so much rain. The winds are not so violent. So the Navy pilot flies with the wind. He goes in until he has winds of, say, sixty miles an hour. He puts the wind on the port quarter and this carries him gradually toward the center of the hurricane.
When he gets the wind speed to suit him, he brings the wind between the starboard quarter and dead astern and flies ahead to the point where he thinks he has the best place to go for the center. According to Commander N. Brango, one of the Navy’s top specialists in hurricane navigation by air, “Choosing the proper run-in spot is tricky business, for it is the point at which the wind is the reciprocal of thestorm’s direction of motion. The pilot must watch for this point carefully, as he may pass it quickly; if he does there is imminent danger that the drift may carry the aircraft into the most severe quadrant of the hurricane.” So the pilot goes into the center without wasting any time. Delay results in fatigue and it is important that the men be freshly alert. The pilot puts the wind broad on the port beam and he cannot possibly miss the eye. The next thing, the plane is in that amazing region where the sea boils, the breezes are light or missing altogether, the rain has ceased and the clouds are arranged in circular tiers, like giant spectators in a colossal football stadium.
This is a marvelous place. The crew is at ease. Coffee goes around. In the last few moments before coming into the eye, the craft leaks like a sieve. Everything is wet but the squirting from a hundred crevices in the plane ceases in the center and now it is possible to do some paper work. The aerologist is busy with the weather code and the radio man begins pounding out a message. They circle around. The pilot takes them up to maybe five thousand feet altitude and back down again, circling around.
And then the time comes to leave the center. The pilot calls a warning over the phone and there are two or three wisecracks. But this departure from the eye is dangerous. The plane begins to catch the shear of powerful winds around the center. Here a man can get thrown around violently and be seriously hurt, if he fails to get a good grip on something or neglects his safety belt.
Now the pilot sets the wind broad on the starboard beam and both he and the co-pilot hang onto the controls. This is rough going and there may be some surprises, but after a little they are out of the big wind circle and the navigator thinks the gales are down to something like fifty knots. The pilot sets course for the Navy airfield and the staccato notesof the radio continue to carry vital weather information to the forecasters. On this subject, Captain Robert Minter, an old hand, at one time in charge of aerology in the Office of Naval Operations, is full of enthusiasm. He guaranteed that the Navy could get a ship off the ground on a hurricane probe within an hour after the Weather Bureau forecaster asked for the information.
The Air Force has a different problem. Like the Navy, they are dedicated to the task of getting vital weather data for the forecasters, but their own problem is to evacuate military aircraft from threatened bases and get information needed for aeronautics. Also, they have the responsibility of giving weather forecasts and warnings to the Army. Until a few years after World War II, the Air Corps was a part of the Army, and when all three services were joined in the Department of Defense, the Air Force kept the weather job for both departments as a matter of economy and efficiency. Therefore, for this and other reasons, the Air Force follows a hurricane-probing plan which differs from the Navy’s.
Flying generally at higher levels in tropical storms, the Air Force, as much as the Navy, puts a great deal of reliance on radar, which has become a marvelous aid in watching the weather. In the beginning—years ago—radar was not designed for weather purposes, however. During World War II, radar was used to spy on enemy ships and aircraft in fog or in darkness, to distances of 150 miles or more. The high-frequency rays sent out by the radar strike the object and are reflected back to the transmitter, where a sort of a silhouette appears on a scope. It may be black with white areas showing images of solid objects, such as planes and ships. In those days early in World War II, the weather was a nuisance to the radar people. It often seemed to interfere with the use of radar for military purposes, but the operators soon learned that the interference came from rain drops inlocal or general storms and that the rainy areas could be located and followed on the scope and, with the proper design, the apparatus could be used as a weather radar.
The first experiments with radar carried on board aircraft in organized tropical storm reconnaissance were made in 1945. Within three years, all the planes were carrying radar sets and had crew members whose sole business it was to watch the radar scope and tell the pilots and weather officers what kind of weather lay ahead.
Scarcely had these observations begun when the radar weather men discovered an amazing fact. On the radar, a tropical storm looks like an octopus with a doughnut for a body and arms that spiral around the body as if the creature had been caught in a whirlpool. These arms are bands of squally weather, oftentimes violent turmoil. Between the bands (or octopus arms) the wind is furious, of course, but there is less turbulence and cloudiness, and here the aircraft is in much less trouble than in the squall bands. The cause of these violent bands spiraling around the center has not been figured out yet for sure, but all tropical storms have them, and the hunters are beginning to understand them better.
The distance you can see from the radar station depends on how much weather there is. If there are large patches of dense rain, they may reflect all the rays back to the receiver and none may go through to show other rain areas farther away. Because of this, the radar shows the eye of the storm, but usually not the entire circle of clouds around a distant eye. Not enough radar energy is left to reflect from the opposite side of the eye. For this and other reasons it is necessary to have an experienced man to interpret the images on the radar scope.
From a radar in an airplane at high levels, these limitations are not so troublesome. Recently, too, the range ofmilitary radars has been increased. Whereas the radar formerly was very useful in getting a view of the eye from the aircraft, it did not give the eye’s geographical position, which had to be determined by other means, except when the eye was close enough to be seen from the coast. With increased range, the aircraft can get between the hurricane center and the coast or an island, and both appear on opposite sides of the radarscope. In such cases, the distance and direction of the eye from a known point on a coast or island can be figured.
In the last two years, the Navy has used radar methods of this type extensively to obtain fixes of hurricane centers at night. In these instances, the crews fly at greater heights than in daylight and can get the eye and the coast on the scope at the same time. This gives a good estimate of center location to supplement the daylight penetrations without flying into the storm center in darkness. Actually, night flights directly into hurricane centers were not profitable, as non-radar observations of sea surface, clouds and winds were not possible in darkness.
It is apparent that a plane going into a storm at some upper level soon gets into the clouds and the sea surface is no longer visible. But the crew can depend on the radar to help find the center and they can go down in the eye of the storm and look around and, if necessary, the plane can descend in the outer parts of the storm and get estimates of the wind by a drift meter. For this latter procedure, the Air Forces at one time used what they called a “low-level boxing procedure.” On this we can get the facts from the instructions issued by the head of the Air Weather Service, Brigadier General Thomas Moorman, Jr., a veteran of weather operations in World War II and in charge of weather reconnaissance in the Pacific, including the work done so effectively during the Korean War.
In 1953, Moorman directed that, in the interest of flying safety, there will be no low-level penetration of hurricanes. The Air Force pilots were asked to go into and out of the eye at the pressure level of seven hundred millibars which, under average conditions, is at about ten thousand feet altitude. Within 100 miles of a land mass, the flights in a hurricane would be at a minimum altitude of two thousand feet. To put it, in part, in the General’s words, the hurricane mission would be conducted as follows:
For high-level penetration, the first priority would be given to obtaining an observed position of the storm center, either by a radar fix plus a navigation fix on the aircraft position, or a position found by penetrating the storm and obtaining a navigation fix in the eye. The storm would be approached on a track leading directly toward the center. If the storm center could not be reached at the seven hundred millibar level, the low-level boxing procedure could be followed, but if the radar set was not operating, no attempt would be made under these conditions to go into the eye.
For the low-level boxing procedure, the following instructions applied, quoting General Moorman in part:
“The storm area is approached on a track leading directly to the storm center and may be approached from any direction. As the winds increase in velocity, corrections will be made so that the wind is from the left and perpendicular to the track. The point at which the box is started is the mid-point of the base side of the rectangular pattern to be flown around the storm. When winds of sixty knots are encountered, the first leg will be started with a 90° turn to the right.
“The low-level box will be flown within the 45-60 knot wind area maintaining a true track for the first half of the leg, then a true heading for the succeeding legs. Surfacewinds should be 45° from the right when the left turn is made to the next leg. Double driftwinds should be obtained on each corner observation and each mid-point when practical. Reconnaissance of an area of a suspected hurricane will be flown with the same procedure.
“The weather observer will check the co-pilot’s altimeter at frequent intervals to insure that it is reading the same as the radar altimeter.
“All flights will depart storm area prior to sunset, regardless of the degree of completion of the mission.
“Flight altitude while boxing the storm will be a minimum of five hundred feet absolute altitude, or at such higher altitude as will permit observations of the sea surface without hazard to safety. If contact flight cannot be maintained at five hundred feet, the legs will be flown a greater distance from the eye.”
The “boxing procedure” was used a great deal by the Air Weather Service in the early years but by 1954 it had been eliminated. The seven-hundred-millibar method was revised, and as used in flights out of Bermuda in 1954 was described by Captain Ed Vrable, navigator, in part as follows: “(1) The aircraft flies down wind at right angles to the storm path to a point of lowest pressure, about twenty miles directly in front of the eye; (2) Flight is continued down wind for three minutes beyond the low point and then the heading of the aircraft is changed 135° to the left; (3) The aircraft continues on this course until the pressure begins to rise and then turns 90° to the left and into the center.”
This new Air Force plan of flying into the hurricane at seven hundred millibars (ten thousand feet, roughly) is much like the Navy’s low-level method, except that the Air Force crews enter down wind across the front of the storm, but this is nearly always an advantage for aircraft based atBermuda. From that island their most direct approach to an oncoming storm is into the front semicircle.
The Air Force has another aid in measuring weather in a storm. It is an instrument called a “dropsonde,” a specially designed apparatus which works on the same principle as the older “radiosonde.” A marvelously ingenious instrument, the radiosonde is a unit of very small weight containing miniature instruments for measuring pressure, temperature and humidity. It also has a metering device, a battery, and a small radio transmitter. The apparatus is carried aloft by a rubber balloon filled with helium. As the balloon rises, the radio transmitter sends signals for pressure, temperature and humidity at each level reached, and the signals are copied on a register at the ground weather station.
The dropsonde is a radiosonde that is thrown out of the aircraft flying at a high level, and allowed to descend by parachute, instead of being carried up by a balloon. There is a special listening post in the plane, where the data are recorded as the apparatus descends. The data are then put into the form of a message for transmission by the plane’s radio operator to the forecasting base. This work with the dropsonde is usually done by the radar operator, in addition to his other duties.
Much of this fascinating work is done by the Air Weather Service of the Air Force on routine daily flights, whether or not there is a tropical storm to be studied. As an example, they have made daily flights from Alaska to the North Pole and back, to keep tabs on the strange weather up there. In this way, there—and in other parts of the world—they get weather daily from places on land and sea where there are no weather stations, no merchant ships to report, and no people to act as weather observers. These flights are named after some bird common to the region. The North Pole flightis called “Ptarmigan”; others are called “Vulture,” “Gull,” etc. Special flights into tropical storms in the Atlantic and Caribbean are called “Duck” missions.
Some of these improvements in the hurricane-hunting methods of the Air Weather Service were mentioned in a report by Robert Simpson, a Weather Bureau meteorologist, who flew with the Air Force into “Hurricane George” in 1947. This was a big storm which appeared first over the ocean to the eastward of the Lesser Antilles. The squadron assigned to the job had been moved to Kindley Field, at Bermuda. Simpson saw Lieutenant Colonel Robert David, who was in command, and arranged for the flight in one of the new planes piloted by an experienced officer, Lieutenant Mack Eastburn.
Hurricane George, so-called by the Air Force boys, although such names were not then official, moved slowly and menacingly across the Atlantic, north of Puerto Rico, and headed toward Florida. Simpson was in it several times with the Air Force. On the first flight, they were in an old B-29 which had too many hours on the engines and had been a bad actor on previous missions, but this time it behaved like a lady and they picked up a great deal of useful information. On the next trip they had a new plane. Here is a part of Simpson’s story:
“Success is a marvelous stimulant. While we had every right to be near exhaustion after our thirteen trying hours this first day in ‘Hurricane George,’ we did not get to bed early that night. There was too much to tell, and too much to discuss concerning the flight scheduled to leave early the next morning. This second flight promised to be even more lucrative of results than the first, for we were scheduled to fly in the newest plane in the squadron. It had only 100 hours or so in the air and contained many new features the other planes didn’t have. Moreover it had bomb bay tanksand could leave the ground with nearly eight thousand five hundred gallons of gasoline.
“There were a few changes in the crew but Eastburn was the pilot again on the second flight. The takeoff was scheduled for 6:30 A.M. The storm was in a critical position as far as warnings were concerned, and the Miami office was anxious to get information as early as possible upon which to base a warning for the East Coast. ‘George’ was located over the eastern Bahamas and was moving slowly westward, a distinct threat to the entire Eastern Seaboard but immediately to the Florida coast.”
The first hint of what was in store for the hurricane hunters that day turned up as they completed their briefing at the ship and prepared to board the plane. The engineer, in a last-minute checkup, found a hydraulic leak and there was a delay of a little more than an hour before that could be repaired. Finally they pulled away from the line and out to the end of the runway. Number 4 engine was too hot. There was another delay while further checks were made into the power plant. Finally they were off—all one hundred thirty-five thousand pounds. This was to have been a very long flight and every available bit of gasoline storage had been utilized.
The plan on this day was once again to make a try for data near the top of the storm, to verify and expand the startling information gained the preceding day. This plane had de-icer boots and they were not concerned about the rime ice that might tend to accumulate, as it had the day before. First, they were anxious to get certain data from a low-level flight, and to learn how effectively the radar could be used for navigating a large plane like the B-29 near the center of the storm. They went out at ten thousand feet again but continued to a point about eighty miles north of the storm at this elevation. By this time they had crossed about four of thespiral rain bands (the spiraling arms of the “octopus”). Here the plane turned downwind parallel to another of the rain bands and flew through the corridor to within viewing distance of the eye. They gradually descended as the base of the middle-level clouds lowered near the storm center. Leveling off at seven thousand five hundred feet, they were in and out of clouds with horizontal visibility low much of the time. However, there was scarcely a thirty-second period when the crew were unable to see the sea surface below. Navigation at this stage was entirely by radar. Again the amazing thing was the lack of turbulence throughout this flight. This was a really big storm. They were flying at only seven thousand five hundred feet through one of the most violent sectors, only twenty to thirty miles from the eye itself, yet they encountered nothing that could be described as important as moderate turbulence. Simpson’s early experience in hurricane flying in 1945 in a C-47 had been repeated. They were flying in comfort under conditions which gave them a command of all the information needed to report the position and intensity of the storm. Simpson remarked: “What a difference this is from the battering flights at five hundred feet in the B-17’s which have been standard operating procedure (‘SOP’) with the squadron until this season!”
The fascination of flying in comfort so near the storm center tempted them to continue this exploration of reconnaissance tactics somewhat longer. However, there were many other important things to be done on this flight and there was no time to waste. They picked their way across one of the bands to an outer “corridor” and retreated to a point about 150 miles from the center and once again began to climb. Perhaps in the fascination of traveling so close to the eye in such comfort they had become complacent. In any case, the events which followed in fast succession left no room for further complacency. They had climbed nohigher than twelve thousand feet when someone spoke on the interphone with a bit of a quiver in his voice, “I smell gasoline.” The hatches were opened and the plane vented hurriedly. Eastburn went aft to investigate and returned with a worried look on his face. He spoke to the engineer, who scrambled through the tube (connecting the fore and the aft sections of the plane) on the double. It was not until after he returned, about twenty minutes later, that the rest of the crew learned that they had developed a very serious gasoline leak in one of the hoses connecting the bomb bay tanks. Nearly a thousand gallons of gasoline had been streamed through the bomb bay doors. The engineer had completed the repair satisfactorily and, after a brief consultation with the plane commander, the crew consented to go ahead with the project.
“We climbed to twenty thousand feet,” said Simpson in his report. “I was seated on the jump-seat between the radar operator and the engineer, looking through the tube. I saw from the tube a wisp of smoke drifting lazily toward the aft section. I do not recall my exact reaction but I am sure I was not a picture of composure when I called this to the engineer’s attention. Nor did he stop to check with the plane commander before demonstrating that he also was a handy man with a fire extinguisher. The cause was a simple thing. As we climbed, the engineer had turned on the cabin heater, the insulation of which was a bit too thin in the tube so that the padding in the tube began to smolder. Perhaps this wasn’t a very important item but it didn’t contribute to the peace of mind of any of the crew, especially when it was remembered that only a few minutes earlier the bomb bay gas tank immediately beneath that tube had been leaking like a sieve. Again the plane commander checked with the crew. Again, but with noticeable hesitation, it was agreed that we would proceed with the project. Higher and higherwe climbed. This time we reached the forty thousand feet mark with the base of the high cirrostratus still above us. So we leveled out, trimmed our tabs and set our course for the storm center. This time we were determined to descend from forty thousand feet in the eye to get a sounding there and then return home at low levels.
“We soon reached the base of the cirrostratus and entered the clouds. The de-icers were working. Again the data began to roll in along the same pattern as observed the previous day—at least for several minutes, until the interphone was filled with the excited voice of the right scanner with a spine-tingling report to the commander, ‘Black smoke and flame coming from number 4.’ At the same time the plane began to throb, roll and yaw. In less time than it takes to say it, the ‘boys’ in the front compartment of this B-29 becamemature men—wise, efficient, stout-hearted men, each with a job to do and each one doing it with calculated deliberateness, yet speedily. There was grim determination here but no evidence of emotion. This magnificent tribute to topnotch training had an exhilarating effect upon me and tempered to some extent the abashment which I could not help feeling as a result of my helplessness in this situation, and the fear which clutched my heart.
“We were lucky! The single carbon dioxide charge released by the engineer extinguished the fire in the engine. Number 4 was feathered and began to cool but our troubles were far from over. The engineer had manuals and technical orders spread out on all sides of him and was working feverishly to restore some power to number 4, as the indicated air speed dwindled from 168 to 166 to 164 or 5, hovering precariously above the deadly stallout at 163. We were only a few miles from north of the center by this time but no one had recorded the data. We were too busy worrying. The pilot was in the process of putting the plane into a longglide to increase the air speed, when the left scanner claimed the interphone circuit with, ‘Black smoke and flame coming from number 1.’ This time wewerein real trouble. However, the engineer had anticipated further difficulty and was ready again. It was only a matter of seconds before the fire was out and some semblance of power had been returned to number 1. But we were still five hundred miles from the nearest land and very near the center of a granddaddy of hurricanes. So we declared an emergency and headed for MacDill Field.”
Altogether, this was an ironical turn of affairs. An old plane had acted like a lady the day before and now a new one had frightened the crew with its mechanical troubles, but the newer methods of hurricane hunting, the “tricks of the trade,” had fortunately taken some of the danger out of the storm itself. Otherwise the mechanical troubles might have combined with the weather to spell disaster.
“The workshop of Nature in her wildest mood.”—Deppermann
“The workshop of Nature in her wildest mood.”—Deppermann
So far as anyone knows, the most furious of the typhoons of the Pacific are no bigger or more violent than the worst of the huge hurricanes of the Atlantic and the West Indies. They belong to the same death-dealing breed of storms, but the typhoons come from the bigger ocean; they sweep majestically across these vast waters toward the world’s largest continent; and to the south and southeast lies a longer stretch of hot tropical seas than anywhere else on earth. Perhaps it is the enormous extent of the environment that explains the fact that in the average year there are three or four times as many Pacific typhoons as there are West Indian hurricanes. The greater excess of energy generated in this enormous Pacific storm region by hot sun on slow-moving waters is evidently released by a more frequent rather than a more violent dissolution of the stability of the atmosphere.
But there is something about typhoons that causes the people to look upon them with even greater terror than in the case of hurricanes. Likewise, the storm hunters tackle the job of tracking them with less confidence. Typhoons come from greater distances. Their points of origin may be scattered over a wider area. Much more often than is the case with hurricanes, there may be two or more at the same time. In their paths of devastation they fan out over a bigger and more populous part of the world. It takes more planes, more men and longer flights to keep up with typhoons than with hurricanes.
For many decades the people of the Far East struggled valiantly against the typhoon menace without much interest on the part of the Western World. Native observers reported them when they showed their first dangerous signs and then came roaring by the islands in the Pacific, including the Philippines, as they swept a path of devastation on the way to China or Japan. Men on ships equipped with radio sent frantic weather messages to Manila, Shanghai or Tokyo as they were being battered by monstrous winds and seas. Father Charles Deppermann, S.J., formerly of the Philippine Weather Bureau, who did as much as any man to help people prepare for these catastrophes, made an investigation to see why some of the typhoon reports from native observers were defective. He listed a few of the reasons.
One observer said his house was shaking so much in the storm that he was unable to finish the observation. He added that ninety per cent of the houses around him were thrown to the ground. Another common complaint was that the observers could not read the thermometers because the air was full of flying tin and wood. Another apologetic man put on the end of his observation a note that the roof of the weather station was off and the sea was coming in. The observer on the Island of Yap fled to the Catholic rectoryand looked back to see his roof, walls, and doors blowing away, but he sent his record to the forecast office! Another observer on Yap was reading the barometer when it was hit by a flying piece of wood and the observer was knocked to the floor. One of the observers had excuses for a poor observation because he had to run against the wind in water knee deep. In another place, the wind blew two rooms off the observer’s house at observation time. But the most convincing excuse for failure was from another town where the observer was drowned in a typhoon before the record was finished.
It is a strange fact, too, that one can look at all these records and the reports written by the Pacific storm hunters after they got going, and seldom see a vivid description of the fearful conditions in the typhoon. The white clouds turning grayish and then copper-colored or red at sunset. The rain squalls carried furiously along. The roar of giant winds and the booming sea as the typhoon takes possession of its empire in huge spirals of destruction. With death and ruin on all sides, nobody seemed to have the energy to write about it. The tumult passed, the wind subsided, the water went out slowly, and the observer wrote a brief apology for the bedraggled condition of the records.
In the same way, the typhoon hunters let their planes down at home base too tired to do anything except compile a few technical notes. The vastness of the thing seemed to leave them speechless. The plane went out on a mission and the base soon vanished, a shrinking dot on the horizon. The mind tired of thinking about the near-infinite expanse of Pacific waters, of thinking about running out of fuel in an endless search of winds, clouds and waves, of thinking about never getting back to that little dot beyond the horizon.
Into this ominous arena the American fleet nosed its way, island by island, in the war against the Japanese. By methodswhich had been handed down from older generations, strengthened by all the modern improvements that could be added, the Americans tried to keep track of tropical storms in this enormous region where trade winds, monsoons and tropical winds hold their several courses across seemingly endless seas, but here and there run into conflict or converge in chaos. Twice when their predictions were not very good, the fleet suffered and in the second instance the typhoon humbled the greatest fleet that ever was assembled on the high seas. The Commander-in-Chief, Pacific, demanded reconnaissance without delay. As men do in time of war, the Navy aerologists moved swiftly and effectively to meet the challenge. In fact, they had anticipated it in part and had plans in the blue-print stage, even before the big Third Fleet took its brutal beating in December, 1944.
Most of the stimulus came from the Atlantic side, where organized hurricane hunting had begun in the middle of the year. But it was not long until the Japanese were driven out of the typhoon areas. In June, 1945, they were being blasted out of Okinawa as typhoon reconnaissance was beginning. In fact, the first men to go out to penetrate a typhoon had to be careful to keep away from Okinawa. By that time the Japanese had committed all their fading sea and air power, including their last remaining battleship, to the defense of Okinawa, and after June, the U. S. Navy had no real enemy except the typhoon.
Beginning in June, 1945, the Navy airmen and aerologists flew two kinds of missions. Almost daily they went out to check the weather, and if they found a full-grown typhoon or one in formation in an advanced stage, special reccos were sent out. One flight went out as soon as it was daylight and the second took off about six hours afterward, early enough to make sure that the second would be completed by nightfall. This was rather tough going. As one of theaerologists pointed out, Pacific distances were so large that if they were considered in terms of similar distances in the United States, a common mission would be like a take-off from Memphis and a search of the area of a triangle extending from Washington, D. C., to New York City and back to Memphis.
Aircraft used by the Navy were Catalinas (PBY’s), Liberators (PB4Y-1’s), and Privateers (PB4Y-2’s). All were four-engined, land-based bombers, some fitted with extra gasoline tanks for long ranges. Before leaving base in the Philippines or the Marianas, the aerologists briefed the crews. In flight, the aerologist directed changes in the course of the plane, but the pilot could use his own judgment at any time when he thought the change might exceed operational safety. From June through September, 1945, the Navy flew a total of one hundred typhoon missions, averaging ten hours each. Lieutenants Paul A. Humphrey (a Weather Bureau scientist after the war) and Robert C. Fite, both of whom flew constantly on these missions, gathered data from all flight crews, and at the end of the season wrote descriptions of five typhoons which were more or less typical.
Some of the most interesting of these missions were directed into the big typhoon which came from the east, crossed Luzon in the Philippines and roared into the China Sea, in the early part of August. On the fourth of the month, one of the Catalinas was checking the weather three hundred miles east of Leyte and saw a low pressure system developing a small tropical disturbance. It grew, was checked daily, and on the sixth blew across Luzon and reached its greatest fury in the South China Sea on the seventh.
The first plane that went into the typhoon in this position was directed to the right and north of the center, to take advantage of tail winds and to spiral gradually into thecenter. As it approached the center, the plane climbed to about five thousand feet, and the crew had a beautiful panoramic view of the clouds piled up on the outer rim of the eye. On account of the awful severity of the turbulence the plane had experienced around the eye, they descended again and flew to home base at altitudes between two hundred and three hundred feet.
On examination of the aircraft after the battered crew had let down at home base, it was found that the control cables were permanently loosened, the skin on the bottom of the port elevator fin had been cracked away from the fuselage, one Plexiglas window was bowed inward, and the paint was removed from the leading edges. Because of the violence of turbulence on this flight, the nervous crew of the second recco plane on that day was instructed to reconnoiter but not to try to go into the center.
On the fifth of September a violent typhoon formed between the Philippines and Palau and moved northwestward toward Formosa. On the tenth a recco plane ran into trouble in this storm. Twice while flying at two thousand feet, it met severe downdrafts, losing altitude at five hundred to one thousand feet per minute while nosed upward and climbing at full power. The eddy turbulence was extremely severe and most of the crew members became sick. The second recco plane on that date ran into violent turbulence also, and at times it was almost impossible for the pilot and co-pilot to keep the plane under control.
And then disaster struck! By the end of September the Navy storm hunters had gone out on one hundred missions into the hearts of typhoons and, although many of them had been frightened and badly battered, there had been no casualties. They made up a report as of September 30, commenting on their phenomenal good fortune on these many flights. But on the very next day, October 1, one of the crewswhich had been making these perilous missions departed on a flight into a typhoon over the China Sea. Those men never came back. No one had any idea as to what had actually happened, but the members of other crews could well imagine what might have happened, and whatever it was, it must have ended in typhoon swept waters where none of the storm hunters expected to have any chance of survival. It could have happened in the powerful winds around the eye or in one of those bands extending spirally outward from the center, filled with tremendous squalls and fraught with danger to brave men venturing into these monstrous cyclones of the Pacific. The report—even before this sequel—had stressed the hazardous nature of reconnaissance.
In these Pacific missions, the pilots and aerologists, even without radar, had become aware of the doughnut-shaped body of the storm with squall bands spiraling outward (the octopus arms). But they got very little information that they thought would help in predicting the movements of typhoons, except the old rule that the storm is likely to continue on its course unchanged, tending to follow the average path for the season. The explorations by aircraft as a means of getting data were far more useful in locating storms and determining their tracks, however, than any other methods.
After the end of 1945, the reconnaissance of tropical storms, both in the Atlantic and the Pacific, was in trouble, owing to demobilization. Many experienced men returned to civil life and it was necessary to start training all over again. The Navy set up schools for two squadrons of Pacific storm hunters late in 1945, at Camp Kearney in California. The graduates were in action in 1946.
After the surrender of the Japanese, the Air Corps maintained a Weather Wing in the Pacific, with headquarters in Tokyo. Part of its job was to give warnings of typhoonsthreatening Okinawa, where the United States had established a big military base. Here they thought they had built structures strong enough to withstand typhoons, but they learned some bitter lessons. The most violent of all the typhoons of this period was one named “Gloria” which almost wiped Okinawa clean in July, 1949.
A most unusual incident occurred over the Island of Okinawa when the center of Gloria was passing. The Air Force was short of planes in safe condition for recco, but managed to get enough data to indicate the force and probable arrival of this violent typhoon. It happened that Captain Roy Ladd, commander of Flight #3, was in the area, with Colonel Thomas Moorman on board, making an inspection of recco procedures in the area. Their report gave the following information:
“As Gloria roared over a helpless and prostrate Okinawa, weather reconnaissance members of Crew B-1 circled in the eye of the big blow and watched the destruction of the island while talking to another eyewitness on the ground. That hapless human was the duty operator for Okinawa Flight Control, who, despite the fact that his world was literally disappearing before his eyes and the roof ripping off overhead, nevertheless stuck to his post and eventually contacted three aircraft flying within the control zone and cleared them to other bases away from the storm’s path.”
Describing the situation, Captain Ladd stated that he had attempted radio contact with Okinawa for some time but was prevented from doing so by severe atmospheric conditions. After a connection had been established, one hundred miles out from Okinawa’s east coast, the control operator requested them to contact two other aircraft in the area and advise them to communicate with Tokyo Control for further instructions.
Shortly thereafter, the RB-29 broke through heavy cloudformations into the comparatively clear eye of the big typhoon. The southern tip of the island became visible, just under the western edge of Gloria’s core. Gigantic swells were breaking upon the coast and the control operator advised that winds had been 105 miles per hour just thirty minutes before and had been increasing rapidly. He reported that the control building’s roof had just blown off, all types of debris were flying by, and aircraft were being tossed about like toys.
A little later, the ground operator had to crawl under a table to get shelter because nearly all of the building had been blown away, bit by bit. Structures of the quonset type were crushed like matchboxes and carried away like pieces of paper. Their roofs were ripped like rags. A cook at the Air Force Base hurried into a large walk-in refrigerator when everything began to blow away. “It was the only safe place I could find,” he explained afterward. “The building blew away but the refrigerator was left behind and here I am.”
One of the meanest of the typhoons of this period was known as “Vulture Charlie.” It was dangerous to airmen because of the extreme violence of its turbulence. Ordinarily, the typhoons were known by girls’ names, and for that reason the typhoon hunters in the Pacific were known as “girl-chasers.” But “Vulture Charlie” got the first word of its name from the type of mission involved, and “Charlie” from the third word in the phonetic alphabet used in communications.
On November 4, 1948, an aircraft commanded by Captain Louis J. Desandro ran into the violent turmoil of Vulture Charlie and described it as follows:
“We hit heavy rain and suddenly the airspeed and rate of climb began to increase alarmingly and reached a maximum of 260 miles per hour and four thousand feet perminute climb to an altitude of three thousand seven hundred feet. The sudden increase in altitude was brought about by disengaging the elevator control of the auto-pilot and raising the nose to control the airspeed. Power was not reduced because of our low altitude. After about thirty seconds to one minute of this unusual condition we hit a terrific bump which appeared to be the result of breaking out of a thunderhead. The airspeed then decreased to 130 miles per hour in a few seconds due to the fact that we encountered downdrafts on the outer portion of the thunderhead and were momentarily suspended in air. At this point the left wing dropped slightly and I immediately shoved the nose down to regain airspeed. Before a safe airspeed was again reached, we had descended to an altitude of one thousand one hundred feet.
“As a result of this turbulence my feet came up off the rudder pedals. The engineer, who was sitting on the nose wheel door instructing a student engineer, came up off the floor like he was floating in the air. The navigator and weather observer were raised out of their seats. A coffee cup, which was on the back of the airplane commander’s instrument panel, was raised to the ceiling and came down on the weather observer’s table. Cabin airflow was being used and the airflow meter exploded and glass hit both engineers in the face.”
In December, 1948, a crew under the command of Lieutenant David Lykins was instructed to use the boxing procedure in a typhoon called “Beverly.” On one of their missions, they flew into it on December 7. The following is based on his report:
The operations office instructed the crew to climb to the seven hundred millibar level (about ten thousand feet) after take-off, penetrate the eye of the storm, take a fix in the center, then make a spiral descent and sounding down toone thousand five hundred feet and proceed out of the storm on a northwesterly heading, to begin the pattern around the storm center.
After the briefing, the crew ate dinner, while talking anxiously about the trip, and returned to the aircraft to load personal equipment. When they were airborne with the gear and flaps up, they made an initial contact with Guam Control. There was no reported traffic, so they were cleared. The instructions were complied with and a heading of 270 degrees was taken up. Soon there was discernible on the horizon a vast coverage of high, thin clouds at about thirty thousand feet. This indicated the presence of the storm, verified by the south wind and slight swells that were perpendicular to the flight direction of the plane. The wind was increasing and the swells were noticed to intensify. The boundary of the storm area was very distinct as they approached the edge. At this point, the surface wind was estimated to be thirty-five knots from 180 degrees.
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 tothe 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 momentarilyuntil 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.”