YUKON
COBRA CRASH REDISCOVERED!
By Blake W. Smith
Selected portions of this story appear in a book by
Blake W. Smith, entitled Warplanes to Alaska — the
story of a World War Two military supply lifeline to
Alaska and Russia through the Canadian wilderness,
featuring over 450 photographs, now available
through Hancock House Publishers, 19313 Zero Avenue,
Surrey, B. C., Canada, V4P 1M7 or telephone (604)
538-1114 or browse at:
www.hancockhouse.com
I swung
my rental truck off the Alaska Highway onto a heavily
rutted dirt service road, dodging small boulders and a
score of other obstacles—mindful that every inch gained
up this rugged hillside was one less inch to be gained
on foot. Finally the road had transformed itself into
little more than a rocky trail and my wheels could carry
me no further.
I double-checked to make sure I had all the usual safety
and survival gear one would normally take on any hike
alone, especially back into the rugged mountains of the
Wolf Range in Canada’s Yukon Territory. I slung my pack
over my shoulder and jabbed a half-dozen rounds into my
vintage 30-30 Winchester lever-action rifle and set out
on foot toward a gleaming 7,000 foot high mountain peak.
This was a hunting trip of sorts but not for grizzly
bear or mountain sheep so prevalent in the area but for
a long-lost wreck of an American P-39 Airacobra fighter
plane that had crashed upon one of these distant
mountain ridges 55 years ago.
On this
spectacular July morning the sun was just beginning to
warm the uppermost peaks as I struggled my way up an old
deteriorated track that paralleled a creek still swollen
by spring run off. I paused briefly to examine my map,
noting where I thought myself to be, then traced my
finger to a penciled “X” indicating the approximate
crash location—a distance I estimated to be about 9
miles. It was a bush pilot who had marked the spot on my
map, having over flown the well-concealed wreck several
years previously. I figured about seven solid hours of
hiking to reach the general area, then who knows how
long to actually find the wreck in the thick tangle of
spruce bushes on the ridge. The northern summer days at
this latitude offered nearly a full twenty-four hours of
daylight so I had no concern of being caught by
descending darkness.
I would be insincere if I didn't admit to a little
trepidation when I saw my first grizzly tracks imprinted
in soft mud and it was at that point that I seriously
questioned my judgment about continuing. Instead I
gripped my Winchester a little tighter and pressed on
trying to ignore the many morbid bear-attack stories I
had heard over the years. Somehow I cast these fears
aside and continued on but now faced having to cross the
icy waters of a fast-flowing creek. Again I mustered the
courage and worked my way over the slippery boulders,
leaning into the strong current, my legs numb to the
crotch. Three more times I had to cross these swirling
waters before I rose out of the ravine and onto a
plateau overlooking the ridge where the crashed
Airacobra was said to lay hidden. The beautiful weather
of morning had given way to the flash of lightning and
crackle of thunder which rumbled down the valley and
reverberated off the mountain peaks. A light rain began
to fall from the thunder heads but the valley and
mountains were partially illuminated by brilliant beams
of sunshine. I marveled at the beauty of the panorama
before my eyes, jagged mountain peaks still partially
cloaked in snow, alpine bushes glowing green, yellow and
crimson, then my mind drifted back to what I knew of
that tragic October 27 day in 1943 . . .
Cold,
stormy weather had swept in and stalled over the
northern portions of the airway in mid-October 1943, as
a result ferrying operations ground to a halt. In all,
257 aircraft were stalled at various bases over the
entire route. These aircraft consisted of mostly P-39
Airacobra fighters, Douglas A-20 attack aircraft, B-25
medium bombers and C-47 transports—most destined for our
Russian ally across the Bering Strait, provided under
the lend-lease program. The Soviet Union was engaged in
a life or death struggle with Nazi Germany and reeling
from a succession of heavy blows which threatened her
very existence. Against this backdrop the western Allies
offered (and eventually contributed) from their combined
arsenals material aid of all sorts including an
estimated 20,000 aircraft, 14,833 from the United States
of which 7,925 were delivered by way of a string of
airfields extending from Great Falls, Montana to
Fairbanks, Alaska, through northwestern Canada. American
pilots of the 7th Ferrying Group, Air Transport Command,
delivered these airplanes from Great Falls over this
wilderness air route to waiting Russian pilots at
Fairbanks. From there Soviet pilots continued the relay
across the breadth of Siberia to the fighting front.
Russia's need for weapons, especially warplanes was
desperate. A genuine sense of urgency was felt by
everyone involved in the transfer of airplanes, from
servicing personnel to pilots, as airplanes had to get
to the fighting front as soon as humanly possible and
that often meant "pushing" the weather.
Former
7th Ferrying Group pilot Carl H. Biron was one of these
weather-bound pilots and recalls his longest trip to
Alaska and the ill-fated flight of another pilot: "I
departed Gore Field (Great Falls) on October 17, 1943 as
part of a three-plane flight of Airacobras bound for
Fairbanks. It was my eleventh trip to Fairbanks, all in
P-39s. The first stop was Edmonton but due to poor
weather conditions beyond this station we could not
depart again until October 22. We worked our way up the
line to Fort St. John and then onto Fort Nelson, where
again we were weathered in. Several other flights of
P-39s had also collected at Fort Nelson, about twelve to
fifteen planes as I recall. We remained there until
October 26, when we were cleared to Watson Lake but no
further because of intense snow storms to the northwest
of Watson Lake."
"The
following day, October 27, flight operations suggested
we might be able to get around the storm system or
possibly over the top. A number of us took off for a go
at it, but within only a few minutes flight time we
found ourselves in one hell of a snow storm. Doing a
quick 180-degree turn, we returned to Watson Lake. The
storm hit the airfield as we were touching down and it
was difficult to see while even taxiing back to the
ramp. I logged twenty minutes flight time that day.
Another flight of two P-39s was not so lucky. They
became separated and one of them attempted to land at
Watson Lake. Unfortunately the field was ‘zero zero’ and
he was on top. He had radio contact and we could hear
him overhead but soon his engine sound faded away. We
all prayed he would make Whitehorse."
"It continued to snow the rest of the day and through
the night. The following day there was still no report
of the fate of one of the missing planes but the one we
had heard overhead was successful in making it to
Whitehorse. The snowplows cleared the runway and on
October 29 we were able to fly search sorties in the
area but without success. Because of their speed the
P-39s made poor search planes, but it was all we had. We
were not able to conduct search flights again until
November 1 because of local weather conditions. By now
so much snow had accumulated, it would probably have
prevented us from seeing much of anything anyway. On
November 2 the weather system moved out and we departed
Watson Lake for Fairbanks. Total elapsed time over the
route was sixteen days—a record longest trip for me."
The lost
pilot referred to by ferry pilot Carl H. Biron was
twenty-three-year-old Lt.Walter T. Kent of Bagdad,
Kentucky. His more fortunate wingman, and first timer to
the Alaskan route, was Lt. William S. Day. Kent was a
relatively experienced flight leader with more than 500
hours of flying time but without an instrument rating.
Their troubled flight began at 0900 hours when the two
P-39s roared down the Watson Lake runway for their
continued flight to Whitehorse. Snow squalls forced Kent
to alter course continuously in order to stay in contact
with the ground. Minutes later they were skimming low
over the Alaska Highway and approaching the narrow
mountain pass in the vicinity of Swift River. Here the
jagged mountain peaks tower to well over 8,000 feet, on
this morning snow flurries obliterated all but the
bases. As they rounded a curve in the narrow valley they
were confronted by a heavy snow squall blocking the
pass. A l80-degree turn was impossible in the tight
confines of the valley so without hesitation both pilots
entered the swirling snow on instruments.
Losing
sight of each other instantly Kent made a gradual
climbing turn to the left, Day did likewise to the
right. Lt. Day spiraled up through the murk, eventually
breaking out on top at 12,000 feet and headed back to
Watson Lake where he found the base socked in and was
snowing heavily. An instrument approach was impossible
because of radio static caused by snow storms. After
thirty minutes of circling the field above the clouds,
Day contacted Watson Lake Radio informing them of his
intention to press on to Whitehorse in hope of better
weather conditions there. A landing was made at that
field without incident.
Lt. Kent was still unreported and presumed down. Search
aircraft assembled from various bases. Poor weather
hampered initial search efforts though several
suspicious marks on mountain sides were discovered—these
later proved to be of natural origin. After pilots
scoured 22,500 square miles of wilderness over a several
week period without success, Kent was officially
declared "lost."
Kent's
disappearance would be solved almost twenty-two years
later. On September 18, 1965, an RCAF helicopter engaged
in the search for a missing civilian airplane, spotted
the glint of sun on metal and landed for a closer look.
The wreckage lay well hidden in sub alpine bush north of
Tootsee Lake, very near where Kent and Day first lost
contact with the ground.
A recovered data plate confirmed the long-lost airplane
to be that of Lt. Walter T. Kent's P-39Q-15-BE Serial
#44-2031. Nothing could be found in the way of skeletal
remains, a fact that wasn't surprising given the
abundance of wolves in the area and the likelihood that
remains would have been scattered by these animals. A
few personal items were found: several coins, a high
school ring with Kent's name inscribed on the inside—all
suggested Kent had been killed in the crash.
As to the cause of the crash, investigators speculated
that Kent had lost control of the aircraft while flying
in the zero visibility of cloud.
...I
slopped on more mosquito repellant in a wishful but
likely futile bid to thwart a voracious swarm of the
pesky pursuers then started up the ridge in a "zigzag"
pattern to where I expected to find the Airacobra. After
a solid hour of difficult hiking I emerged above the
tree line with the realization that finding this wreck
may prove more challenging than first thought. As I was
pondering the prospect of failure a light snow began to
fall from a single large gray cloud overhead. The
coincidence of Kent crashing during a snowstorm and the
oddity of this July snow shower was not lost on me and I
took it for a sign from above and pressed on with my
search.
I
zigzagged back down the ridge to where the spruce scrub
became dense again and from the corner of my eye a
silver-gray object caught my attention. With a jolt of
excitement I realized that I had found a length of
aluminum tubing—clearly aeronautical in origin! Ahead of
me stood a thick screen of trees and sensing I was near
the wreckage I plunged through the tangle of branches to
emerge in a field of airplane wreckage. Yes! A severed
wing…then another, over there the tail, remarkably
intact and gleaming silver, once painted olive drab but
more than a half-century of wind-driven snow had blasted
most of the paint away. A machine gun here and another
over there, the propeller…isn't that odd I thought, one
of the three blades is missing but the other two are
virtually undamaged! A thousand pieces big and small
were scattered about the clearing, all interesting and
worth closer examination. I dropped the pack from my
shoulders, glad to finally be free of the weight and
placed my rifle within easy reach should I be caught
unaware by a hungry grizzly. I was amazed at how
complete the wreckage appeared to be even though it was
demolished—evidently souvenir hunters had not discovered
this one. Identifying pieces and trying to determine the
attitude of the airplane and direction of flight at the
moment of impact based on the pattern of strewn debris
was an intriguing puzzle. The eleven hundred pound
Allison engine was wrenched from its mounts and
catapulted 200 yards down the hillside.
Judging
from the mangled instrument panel and tangled rudder
pedal assembly and connecting parts it appeared that the
engine had passed through the cockpit on its way
out—taking Kent with it (the Airacobra design featured
the placement of the engine behind the pilot). Also
scattered about were a number of items then carried by
ferry pilots in a parachute "seat pack" survival kit.
Contained in this kit were food rations, fishing line,
snare wire, matches, a flare gun and a number of other
useful items. From this survival kit I discovered among
the debris several unopened ration cans and his brass
flare gun. These, along with the discovery of the webbed
seat belt harness, still clasped at the buckle but
snapped at both anchor points confirmed that Kent had
not escaped by parachute.
Two hours
vanished in what seemed an instant and as I was
preparing to depart a small metal object, rectangular in
shape and gold in color, caught my eye. I picked it up
and examined it; a strange feeling came over me as I
realized that this was Kent's brass lieutenant bar! It
is odd how a scene of past tragedy, especially when one
is acquainted with all the details thereof can cause one
to feel a sense of presence. Perhaps it was the quiet
and lonely wilderness that surrounds the site but I
couldn't help but imagining a young Lt. Kent dressed in
flight suit sitting upon one of the broken wings
watching me sift through the bits and pieces of his 55
year old resting place, wondering why I couldn’t see
him. I said a respectful "good by" and started the long
walk out.
Authors
note—the following summer I returned to the crash site
with friend and fellow aviation enthusiast Dave Harris.
The purpose of the return visit was to affix a small
plaque which Dave had made as a tribute to Lt. Kent
which read: "In memory of Walter T. Kent, 2nd Lt. USAAF,
died here Oct. 27, 1943 in performance of his duties as
a pilot attached to the 7th Ferrying Group. The cause of
his untimely demise and his exact resting place are
known only to God.
May he
rest in peace.
©
Blake W. Smith 2006
