CHAPTER THREE
'Where's Norm Crosson?'

SOMEONE once said that operational flying was 95 per cent boredom, and 5 per cent terror. No one in the four squadrons flying to the target on that first day of December in 1942 would disagree. It was a long, tedious journey over the ranges of New Guinea. The crews knew little about the Owen Stanley Mountains and the fierce battles of attrition that had taken place there from July to October. Australian units had encountered and stalled a force of crack Japanese troops determined to capture Port Moresby. The smoke had cleared from the battle and the Japanese had retreated to bunker fortifications on the island's north-east coast.
From the air the Owen Stanley's looked ancient and sinister. The place to observe them was definitely from the air. No one wanted to think about coming down somewhere in the mountains. To most observers it was 'creepy and spooky'. On this December day, vast expanses of the mountains were obscured by intermittent cloud cover. The group's formation — the 319th leading, followed by the 400th, the 321th and the 320th — was predetermined, with the crews most familiar with the route leading the formation. The navigators of the 319th plotted the course for the others to follow.
Crosson was eager to give a good showing. It was the Eva's first mission and this was the biggest group sortie thus far in the war. He had an eager but inexperienced crew and this was the moment that they had trained and prepared for. He had told them so during the flight. The intercom buzzed with motivational fervour and a call to duty. Crosson ran a tight ship, but he also knew the benefit of good morale. The crew were allowed to smoke when the ship was flying at less than 7000 feet, and they were allowed to chatter providing no one took his eye off the ball. When Crosson learnt that Gaston had some fresh fruit and Workman some candy, he permitted them, in turn, to pass the snacks around the ship. It was no big deal, but it pleased the crew.
Crosson gazed at Major Faulkner's ship in the front of the squadron. Eva was to the left and Higgins in Cow Town's Revenge flew on the right flank. McMurria, Rose and Crawford's ships were in the middle. It was not just Crosson s crew that was about to be tested, but also the whole squadron. Faulkner wanted the 321st to be the best squadron in the group. It was 1800 hours and the weather near the north-east coast of New Guinea was much clearer. Rogers, leading the 319th, changed course to run down the slot in the Bismarck Sea between New Britain and Finschhafen. He did not want to experience the ignominy of not finding the Japanese destroyers — always a distinct possibility. At 1810 there was no more doubt: 'Ships bearing south-east of Gasmata, about thirty miles ... one, no three ... wait, there's more. The bombardier in Chuck Jones's ship had seen them first. Other eyes brought confirmation. They had found them.
The Japanese had entered World War II with a poor sense of operational logistics. The swift victories in the early months of the war had created vast areas of conquest and equally distant garrisons. Supplying stores and reinforcements to isolated areas was to become a problem that would ultimately become a crisis. The Japanese merchant fleet, -whose task it was to ferry stores to and from the areas of occupation, were gradually being decimated by a rejuvenated American submarine service. The battle for Guadalcanal was the first campaign of the Pacific War to be decided by operational logistics. Despite having considerable forces deployed in the conflict, the Japanese were totally unable to land sufficient stores or reinforcements on the island.
The American airstrip on the island proved decisive, with the 'Cactus Air Force' taking full toll of surface shipping en route to supply the Japanese garrison. Japanese 'Marus' littered the seas and shores of Guadalcanal. By November, the Japanese were using destroyers loaded with stores to run the gauntlet at night, rolling steel drums from the decks to land on the beach with the tide. It was too little and too late.
The beachheads at Buna and Gona, where the Japanese were preparing to make a last stand, represented a similar situation to that confronting the strategists at Guadalcanal. On 17 November 1942 the Japanese successfully landed another 1000 men at Buna. By the end of the month the garrison totalled 8000. Regular supplies from Rabaul became a life or death matter for the Japanese. The destroyer convoy due to arrive in Buna on December 2nd would be a welcome boost to the fortunes of the garrison. It had departed Rabaul two days earlier and the journey had so far been uneventful, but at 1830 hours on December 1st, 200 miles south of Gasmata, vigilant lookouts on the destroyers sighted an American bomber formation to the north-east.
Rogers' plan was for each squadron to independently make two passes, which would effectively double their chances of hitting the small moving targets. The problems were apparent. It would take longer to complete the mission and would afford the Japanese time to further prepare and also increase the possibility of a confrontation with Japanese fighters.
The Mitsubishi Zeke was the most successful Japanese fighter aircraft of the war. In the early days of the Pacific conflict it reigned supreme, but by the end of 1942 the Americans were beginning to understand the strengths and weaknesses of the aircraft they referred to as the 'Zero'. The type that flew operations in the south-west Pacific theatre from late spring 1942 was the A6M3. Its 1130-horse-power engine provided speed and manoeuvrability at the expense of armoured protection. The 10,938 Zeros built during the war were armed with twin 7.7 mm machine guns, synchronised to fire through the airscrew, and 20 mm cannons mounted in the wings. They could fly in excess of 300 miles per hour at 20,000 feet. One feature that concerned the Americans was a climbing rate of 3000 feet a minute.
The men of the 319th Squadron were alarmed but not surprised to observe fifteen Zeros in the vicinity of the convoy. Like swarming bees they began racing in the direction of the Liberators. Rogers knew that the best way to do battle with Zeros was to maintain formation and use organised and concentrated firepower. He had six ships in his formation; the other squadrons were still a considerable distance to the rear — too far behind to have an impact in the early stages of the battle to come.
'Maintain "V" formation,' said Rogers. They'll attack from the front — they always do.'
Rogers was correct. The Japanese flew over and ahead of the squadron and turned to conduct a frontal attack on the American bombers. It was a typical 'string formation', one fighter at a time flying and firing at the B-24s in an attempt to break up the formation. Rogers' crew fired first with the two nose fifties. Soon the other ships opened up; waist and tail gunners fired at the Zeros as they over-flew the formation. Strict formation also helped with the accuracy of the gunners. The dorsal and rear gunners were restrained in their blisters, but the waist gunners had no such restraint. However, a level ship flying in formation enabled them to maintain steady and accurate fire. The frontal attacks at a combined closing speed of 500 miles per hour was a terrifying experience, particularly for the ship's bombardier, encased like a fish in a bowl and preoccupied with getting a fix on the target. It was no less terrifying for the Zero pilots when confronted with a concentrated wall of fifty-calibre amour- piercing rounds. One Zero was caught in a turn and hundreds of fifty-calibre rounds blasted into the unprotected belly tank. The Zero crashed into the sea in flames. When flying in formation, the credit for kills was always a contentious issue for crews. On this day it was Rogers' ship that claimed first blood.
The 319th maintained a steady formation and began the first bomb run at 15 000 feet. It was no easy task. The Zeros were still hovering and pestering the formation and the anti-aircraft fire from the destroyers was becoming more concentrated. The squadron's bombardiers kept cool heads and began to align their Nordens.
The development of the Norden Bombsight was begun in 1928 by inventor Carl Norden and engineer Theodore Earth. It was a radical new aiming device that was linked to the aircraft's autopilot. The bombardier entered data on air speed, wind and bomb trajectory, and, as the bombardier aligned the lens to the target, the Norden automatically released the bombs at the proper release point. It could 'drop a bomb into a pickle barrel from 25,000 feet boasted the United States Air Corps. The stringent secrecy surrounding the device, and the regard for it, was not inspired by performance. At best, during clear weather, the Norden could direct one in five bombs within 1000 feet of the target.
The existence of the bombsight remained classified until 1947. The American military was paranoid about it falling into enemy hands. During the Doolittle raid on Tokyo in May 1942, the Americans removed the Nordens from the B-25 Mitchells and left them on the USS Hornet.
The value of the Norden against shipping in the Pacific theatre was suspect. Despite the crushing victory by the American navy over the Japanese in the battle of Midway, a squadron of B-17s from the island could not claim a single hit on the large Japanese fleet, in perfect weather conditions. Moreover, a confidential report submitted to the American military revealed that only one in a hundred bombs dropped by high-altitude bombers on enemy shipping hit the target. One pilot from the 90th suggested that he would be happy to trade the Norden for an extra gallon of gas.
The first run on the destroyers achieved nothing, not even near misses. The second run was better; a hit was observed on the stern of one of the destroyers. Rogers noticed that the ships ofjones and Rice were in trouble. Smoke was pouring from their starboard engines. They would need to get the crippled ships back to Port Moresby at the double. Fortunately for the squadron, the Japanese Zeros had departed — doubtless short of fuel and ammunition. The 319th squadron claimed to have made five kills during the engagement, an ambitious and unlikely figure which was never confirmed.
No sooner had the squadron set course for Port Moresby than the remaining squadrons prepared to engage the enemy. It was easy to find the ships; not only had their position been given but the crews could see the ominous signs of anti-aircraft fire in the distance.
Light was fading as the 321st gathered to make a bomb run on the ships. McMurria led a three-ship formation with Higgins on the left and Crosson on the right. The anti-aircraft fire had eased, but it was still hot. It was possible that the Jap fighters would come back. Nobody wanted to hang around; everybody wanted to hit and run. Tom Doyle, the bombardier in McMurria s ship, shouted into the intercom, 'I think we've hit one — on the stern. I think she's slowing down.'
Crosson was next. This was it — the crew was at last in action. Til hold her steady, Dale,' said Crosson. 'Make 'em count.'
Grimes lined up the Norden, slowly and surely. 'Wait, wait .,. hold it ... wait ... steady ... bombs away' There was a moment of silence and then Grimes was once again on the intercom: 'God damn it!'
'What's the matter?' shouted Crosson. 'Dale, what s the matter?'
They've hung up,' said Grimes. 'The bombs have hung up. There's something wrong with the racks.'
'Jesus Christ! Try and fix it — we'll try one more run said Crosson, already thinking the worst — an ignominious mission failure.
It was no better the second time. Eva was forced to leave the formation. The aircraft of the 320th were forming in the rear to attack. Crosson pulled out of line. Grimes left his station and inspected the rack and made some adjustments. Minutes went by.
'It should be okay now, Lieutenant,' said Grimes.
'It's too late for the ships/ said Crosson. 'We've missed our chance.'
Crosson had two options. He could drop his ordnance into the sea and return to base with the squadron, or he could break formation and attack the secondary target, which was Lae, less than one hour's flying time away.
The Japanese had occupied Lae in March 1942. The Allies were surprised that the Japanese had not moved inland. Instead they formed a garrison which became a popular raiding target for RAAF and American aircraft. In the month of August alone, the Allies flew fifty-six sorties and dropped 150 000 pounds of bombs on Japanese installations.
'We're goin' to visit the Japs at Lae Crosson told his crew on the intercom. 'We'll drop our load and be back at the base with the others later tonight/
Crosson could sense the crew's disdain through the intercom. He had no doubt that they would prefer to follow the squadron home. A one-ship raid on Lae was likely to be a waste of time and was definitely a considerable risk, particularly as the bombs might still be hung up.
Crosson was determined to proceed with his plan. He consulted with Faulkner and received permission to break formation. He told Dyer to plot a course and turned his ship to the south-west. Dyer acknowledged, but then informed the lieutenant that there appeared to be some storm activity on the horizon.
For the crew of Little Eva the flying adage of boredom versus terror was about to be reversed.
The closer that Little Em got to Lae, the closer the storm enveloped them. It was still thirty minutes to target when Crosson decided to abort the mission. The sky was black, there were flashes of thunder and there was little doubt about the potential danger that lay ahead. Crosson told Grimes to drop the bombs into the sea. The crew grimaced — yet another failure and more ignominy.
Little Em was above the Solomon Sea, alone and off-course. Ahead lay the Owen Stanley Range, but Dyer and Crosson could not see the mass. Dark clouds and the approaching night were obscuring the area. Crosson and Speltz would have to fly on instruments. Although instrument-flying was considered routine, few pilots had experience and the standards were variable. The strategy was simple: fly a couple of thousand feet above the highest mountain in your path and add a few more thousand to be sure. Forget 'flying by the seat of your pants'; it was a poor flight indicator, and the inner ears gave a false sense of balance. 'Always use the artificial horizon,' said the instructors. 'Needle and ball, airspeed and compass — it works.'
Timing was also important. The clouds were always a little lower in the morning, getting higher as the day progressed. Most aircraft flew the route from Port Moresby down to Hood Point and over the mountains. There were two good reasons — the mountains were not quite as high in this area and the base wanted constant weather updates in the area. But Crosson did not have the luxury of timing and the weather conditions were ominous. Soon fierce winds and heavy rain were hitting the ship.
Flying directly into a tropical storm was the stuff of nightmares. Winds could reach 200 miles per hour. Crosson and Speltz were flying to stay alive. The ship could fall apart at any moment — Eva rattled and shook. The other crew members became observers; some prayed; all were terrified. For nearly an hour Eva was like a metallic leaf in the fierce wind. Crosson attempted to fly around the storm and then to fly above it — 20 000 feet would do it — Eva could not climb that high. The crew members were impressed by the ability of Crosson and Speltz to fly the ship in such conditions. Gaston told McKeon that they might just make it after all.
"We're goin' to get outa' this,' he said. 'The skipper's getting on top of the storm. It's goin' to be all right.'
Suddenly, all hell broke loose. Eva flipped and plunged towards the earth. Those not restrained were thrown around the ship like pickles in a barrel. The aircraft was in a spin — a potential disaster for any pilot, and even more so in a tropical storm.
*Hold tight! Hold on to something. We're going down,' yelled Crosson.
The leaf was now like a top spinning towards oblivion. Speltz began to call out the altitude. 'Nineteen thousand ... seventeen thousand ... sixteen thousand ... do something ... fifteen thousand ... fourteen thousand ... do something. For God's sake, do something.'
As Speltz blessed himself, more than one man began to cry.
Crosson remembered an old procedure that he had learned in primary flying school. With enough altitude, it just might work. He had no choice; it was do or die. He cut the power to the engines and neutralised the controls. The stick went forward and Crosson kicked the rudder in the opposite direction. The ship shuddered even more than in the storm.
'Thirteen thousand ... thirteen-five-hundred .,. What are you doing? You'll knock the damn wings off,' said a terrified Speltz.
Crosson knew that a stalling ship would shudder as it entered the stall. The ship should drop to the left due to the torque of the spinning props. As the nose dropped, Crosson kicked full right rudder and reapplied power. The crew could sense the stress on the wings, but they were the Davis type — the toughest in the world. Rivets popped and the fuselage shook, and moments became minutes. The crew were about to brace themselves for the inevitable when Eva began to resume level flight. It was a minor miracle and the only thing to go right for Crosson s crew since the mission began.
'Jesus Christ, we did it. You can't do that with a four-engine job,' said Speltz.
'Go tell that to the Consolidated Aircraft Company,' replied Crosson.
The spin was not the end of their troubles; it was just another episode in their ordeal. The weather was a little clearer over the Coral Sea, but not clear enough for celestial navigation, and the instruments had been rendered useless by the severity of the storm.
'John, have you got a fix on where we are?' asked Crosson. 'Can anybody see the light?'
Iron Range was tough enough to find during the day, but at night it was even worse, especially with the dust and the cloud cover. The field sent up a vertical searchlight that could be seen for miles; once crews located this, the landing lights would guide them in.
The radio operators on the B-24s sent routine communications to the base while on missions or on recon. Gaston's reports to the base were becoming desperate. He gave an estimated position provided by Dyer, but it did not inspire confidence. After a spin-out most navigators became confused and disoriented. One said that you couldn't find 'your ass with both hands'. The tower always knew the routes that missions flew; however, Eva was anywhere but on the official route.
'I think we've missed the base,' said Dyer. 'We should be on the east coast, heading south, maybe 100 miles from Cairns. Should we continue our present heading?'
Crosson throttled back to conserve fuel and he reduced altitude. Flares were dropped in the hope of identifying some distinctive topographical features, or perhaps of getting some response, but they revealed only darkness and desolation. Helpless at their stations, the crew were in a state of fear. When Crosson instructed Gaston to send a mayday, the fear became terror.
The storm that had tormented Little Em had also spread to the Gulf country. Frank Walden at Escott Station watched the gathering of clouds become dark and threatening. Since early evening on the 1st it had rained. It was always the same at this time of the year. First it would sprinkle and then it would come down by the bucketful. It was the start of the 'wet'. Walden liked the sound of rain. After months of parching heat and dry fields, it was a welcome respite. Soon the gullies and creeks would overflow and the parched land would be enveloped in water. The station's business was cattle and the cattle had to have fresh feed. The 'wet' brought new challenges, but it was a more desirable protagonist than drought.
Escott Station was one of the oldest properties in the Burketown area. Legend has it that a man called Nat Buchanan walked the first cattle into the area in 1864. Four years later, the land was owned by the English, Scottish and Australian Pastoral Company. The name 'Escott' came from this commercial alliance. Gulf fever claimed the life of the manager of the station and the property was abandoned. In the last decade of the century, the property was sold to the Walden family.
The original homestead had been built on the 'Old Marless' station, which represented 90 per cent of the property. In 1934, the fifty-year-old homestead was destroyed by fire. The Walden family rebuilt at Escott and moved into their new home in 1942. The station covered a massive area, stretching from the Albert River to the Northern Territory and up to the Gulf. It was estimated that the area was about 250,000 acres. It would take a week to ride from one boundary to another.
The Walden family listened to the war news through a short-wave radio. Although the reception was as bad as the news, it was the family's window to the outside world. The arrival of the Americans, at first seldom acknowledged, was a source of comfort to the people of the outback. The threat of invasion was still real for the people of the 'Top End'; any Japanese offensive would undoubtedly start there or on the North Queensland coast. The distant engine noises of American aircraft, mission-bound for New Guinea, or returning to their northern bases, were a comforting sound on a quiet night.
Frank was lying awake in the early hours of 2 December 1942 when he heard the engine sound of a heavy bomber, away in the distance but getting closer. There was something odd about the aircraft — not the sound but the direction it was coming from. It wasn't like the others he had heard. Frank lit a lantern and walked to the front verandah. Soon he was joined by his wife, Ellen.
'What is it, Frank?' she asked.
1 dunno. It's a plane, but I think that it's heading west. Maybe it's lost. It sounds like it's close and low ... Sshh ... Don't you hear it? It's coming from the east ... listen.'
I don't hear anything. Why would it be going west? It's probably just thunder.'
'No, it's a plane. I can tell.'
'It could also be a jap plane,' said Ellen. 'Better put out the lantern.'
Frank looked in the direction of the sounds. He saw a quick flash —'- or was it a light, maybe a signal or a beacon? — but then he could see nothing. The sound grew distant. There was no doubt it was heading west, but why? There was nothing out there, nothing at all. The rain grew heavier and there was the odd flash of lightning. Frank put out the lantern and went back inside. It had been a long day. He fell asleep to the sound of rain falling on the tin roof.
Crosson knew that time was running out. The gauges told the story. There was no more than 100 gallons in each tank — enough for twenty minutes flying time. 'John, where are we? For God's sake, do you have any idea where we're going? Unless we bring her down soon, we'll have to jump.'
'We must be near the coast, near Cairns. I don't think we're over water/ said Dyer. 'This is the right heading for Cairns. I'm doing the best I can. Do we have any more flares? I need some visuals.'
There were no more flares and there was no more time. The pilots were alarmed when number one engine spluttered and died; then number two cut out. It was sooner than they'd expected. The crew heard it too. Everyone knew what was coming.
'We'll have to jump,' said Crosson. 'Leave your stations and meet at the bomb bay door. Inflate your vests. I'm going to take her up to 9000 feet while I can. Nobody jump till I give the order.'
'Arthur, get yourself back there and make sure that everyone gets out okay.'
Crosson did not trust the automatic pilot. He wanted to manually hold the ship steady while the crew prepared to jump. He reflected on the operation. What a disaster it had been. He had missed the target and the ordnance had been dropped into the sea. Eva was lost somewhere over north Australia and now they were going down. He may even lose his crew. All this for nothing. Crosson was mortified.
There are several exit possibilities on a B-24. An athletic crewman could jump out of the rear, or waste, windows. There was also the bottom hatch near the tail. This area was for camera mounting, but after a tight squeeze a man could exit the ship there. These options were dangerous. The chute could wrap around the tail, or, worse, you could hit the tail before you could pull the ripcord. There was also a hatch on the flight deck to the rear of the pilots and forward of the top turret. This was normally used by the flight engineer when checking that gas caps were secure or for refuelling. These hatches were ideal exits if the ship ditched into the sea. A desperate pilot could also squeeze through the sliding widows adjacent to his position. However, the best place to jump from a B-24 was through the bomb bay doors. There was plenty of room and no equipment to interdict a free fall.
Speltz grabbed the hydraulic lever on the right side of the bay and the section rolled alongside the fuselage like a roll-top desk. The moving sections were driven by large sprockets working directly on corrugated stiff inner skins. The night wind rushed through the bay, and the sound and the blackness did nothing to ease the trepidation of the men as they gathered along the catwalk.
The intercom buzzed. 'Okay, out. Everyone out,' yelled Crosson. 'See you on the ground. Good luck.'
Crosson wrestled with the controls as the men jumped into the night. 'Come on, skipper, it's time to go,' said Speltz, as he entered the flight deck. 'They've all gone. Save yourself.'
Crosson cut the throttles so Eva could glide. He left his seat and watched Speltz vanish through the doors. Crosson checked his harness, inflated his vest, took a fleeting look over his shoulder and dived head-first into the darkness.
As he swung like a pendulum in the night sky, he inflated his Mae West. It acted like a neck collar, making it difficult to look down. But that didn't matter, as there was nothing to see.
Like the others he was fearful about coming down in the sea. It would mean almost certain death. He braced himself for the immersion. Instead there was a thump and then blackness. Crosson did not know how long he had been unconscious — probably just minutes. He was on his back, wrapped up his chute. He could see the outline of a tree above him. He had hit it and it had hit him. His head hurt, as did his side. The life jacket had cushioned his fall or it might have been worse. There was a trickle of blood on his cheek, but his mind seemed to be functioning normally. The broken ribs were another matter. He couldn't bear to touch his side and it was difficult to breathe. It hurt as he called out in the night. There was no answer. The glow in the dark could only be the plane. It looked only a few miles away — three at most. It was burning brightly and there was the cacophony of exploding ammunition. He walked as quickly as he could towards the luminosity and the reverberations. Surely the others would do the same. With a little luck they should all meet by daybreak.
Crosson found Eva just before dawn, but he was not the first one there. Loy Wilson had arrived during the night and was sitting beside the wreck. He rose to his feet as he saw Crosson approaching.
'Are you the only one here?' asked Crosson.
(Yes sir, but there's something that you have to see. Workman never made it. His chute is caught on the door.'
'Oh Jesus,' said Crosson, as he saw the crumpled figure of Charles Workman still entangled in his harness, with his chute s shroud lines wrapped around the port waist latch.
Like a puppet on a string, his body had been pounded lifeless against the tail section. 'Why didn't he jump through the bomb bay doors like the rest of us?' It was a question that could never be answered. Workman was dead before the ship hit the ground.
Eva had landed belly down and had skidded for a hundred metres. The area was level with some brush and long grass. Crosson at first thought that they might have made it without jumping, but then he saw that the front section of the ship had caught fire and was totally destroyed. The port and starboard wings were intact, as was the external rear fuselage. Fire had raced through the inside of the ship. The rear gun turret had been torn from the ship and rested a few metres to the rear. There was a debris field and the occasional snap of exploding ammunition. 'There's something else,' said Wilson. 'I think that there's someone still inside.'
The two men walked to the port waist window. The fires had subsided, but inside the area was still smoldering and smokey. It was too hot to go inside, and they had no wish to do so. They gazed through the opening. In the rear of the tail section were human remains; it was a sight they would never forget.
'Oh Christ! Oh Jesus! What happened?' exclaimed Crosson. *I thought that everyone was out. Why didn't he jump? Why didn't he jump with the rest of us? He didn't have a chance. Who do you think it is?'
'I can't be sure said Wilson, 'but I think it's Ed McKeon. I don't remember seeing him jump.'
Soon it was daylight and Crosson pondered the situation. No doubt the others would turn up soon. The smoke from the fire was still omnipresent — a beacon in the sky.
'We'll wait until sundown for the others. They should be here by then.'
Crosson believed that the distance between the first jump and the last was around ten miles — no more than a few hours walk. The two men waited beside the wreck. The day was long and the weather hot. By 1500 hours it was becoming doubtful whether any other crew members would return to the plane.
'They should be here by now/ said Wilson. 'Maybe they didn't make it, or maybe they've been found by a farmer or something. They could have followed a trail and walked out of this place.'
Crosson knew that a decision had to be made. He was in pain, there was no food or water and he was already feeling the pangs of thirst. There had to be a homestead close by. He could report the matter to the authorities and organise a search for the others. A search party could return to the plane and take care of the dead crew member. Another day here could make a difference. They needed their strength. So at 1800 hours on 2 December 1942,Crosson and Wilson left the Little Eva and headed west.

Twenty hours earlier and three hundred miles to the north-east, the first ships of the 90th Bomb Group were returning to Iron Range. It was not a good night for celestial shots and the navigators had to depend on dead reckoning. It was a bleak, dark and stormy night. Rogers, leading the 319th, had turned on his landing lights for the other ships to follow him in. This was a good idea if Rogers was able to find the base. By 2200 there was some concern. Maybe they had overflown the base, or maybe they were off course.
'There's the light,' said Rogers' navigator. 'At two o'clock ... its the searchlight from the base.'
Rogers commenced his run at 1000 feet. He had difficulty in lowering the nose wheel due to flak damage. When taxiing after landing, Rogers had to feather his engines, as his idling lever had been severed by the Japanese Zeros. The other squadrons also had difficulty in finding the base, but by 0130 the ships of the 320th, the 400th and the 321st were on the ground — all but one.
Walter Higgins had landed Cow Town's Revenge at 2350. Jim McMurria had arrived a few minutes before. The mission had been a modest success and no crews had been lost in action.
'Where's Fats?' asked Higgins during debriefing. 'Where's Norm Crosson?'
'We don't know,' said McMurria. 'He must still be aloft or maybe he's gone down.'
It was shortly after 2400 when the tower notified Colonel Rogers that a mayday had been received from a B-24, presumably Lieutenant Crosson s ship; the aircraft had been caught in a storm and the navigator was seeking a bearing position; it was apparently lost somewhere near the base; the situation had been desperate, as the ship's fuel was due to run out within two hours.
Frank Walden knew that the wet was corning. This meant that much of the property would be inaccessible and it was necessary to check fences and recover stray stock while the weather allowed. He had all but forgotten about the night, twelve days earlier, when he'd heard the strange aircraft noises. It was 4 o'clock in the afternoon and it was still hot. Frank was rounding up some horses with two Aboriginal stockmen; the dogs were at the horses' heels. Frank decided to put the livestock in the temporary stockyard that they had built near Pelican Waterhole on Gin Arm Creek.
At first he thought it might have been a snake when his horse, Firebolt, reined back. The dogs began barking. 'Look over there, Boss,' said one of the stockmen. Frank gazed in the direction of a tree on the far side of the creek. Two men were sitting side by side, and both began to rise. He wondered who they could be. They certainly weren't locals. Perhaps they were Japs. Frank lamented the fact that he had left his rifle back at Escott. He used it to dispatch injured stock or troublesome predators. Frank was pleased that there was a hundred yards of water between the two groups. There was further comfort when one of the men called out in a loud voice, 'Over here. Over here. We're Americans. We're American flyers. Our plane went down. We're lost.'
Frank could hear the unmistakable accents. Both men were waving and shouting in unison. They walked to the edge of the creek as if to begin crossing it.
'Stay where you are,' said Frank. Til send one of the boys over to get you.'
He told one of his men to go to the crossing upstream and guide the men across the creek. Minutes later the two groups met. 'Thank God you found us,' said the taller man. Tm Norman Crosson. I am a lieutenant with the 90th Bomb Group. This is Staff Sergeant Wilson. We've been lost for days. We were beginning to think that we wouldn't make it. Have you found any of the others yet?'
Frank was surprised at the state of the men. They were malnourished and badly burned by the sun and their clothes were torn. Both the men were covered in scratches, and Crosson's feet were so badly lacerated that he could hardly walk.
'Can you blokes get on a horse? We'll get you back to the house.' Frank told one of his men, George, to ride back to the homestead. 'Tell the Missus what's happened. Tell her we're on our way.'
The Americans had seldom experienced such care and kindness. Crosson grimaced as Ellen started to cut away his issue socks that had become embedded in his skin. Once removed, the socks were hung on a nail on the kitchen wall.
Wilson had his feet in a bucket of hot water. Their thirsts quenched, the two enjoyed some beverages; there was no coffee, but tea had never tasted so good. The whole property was energised by the event. Station life can be dull and routine, and the arrival of the two 'Yanks' became a focal point of interest. Franks three sons, Edward, Roy and Francis, had returned from the paddocks once they heard the news. Staff and station hands gathered around the house. Those inside heard the first account of a remarkable odyssey.
Crosson and Wilson had decided to trace the route of Eva's descent in an effort to find the other crew members. Late on the first day they had come across the Cherrapunya waterholes and a dry creek bed where they spent the night. Late on December 4th, they found a small creek with salt water and believed that they were nearing the sea; they thought that it must be the Coral Sea, but it was the Gulf of Carpentaria. There were no beaches and no sign of life. After struggling for four days through mudflats and mosquito-infested swamps, 'I never thought that I'd eat under a light again,' said Crosson.
I never thought that I'd sleep under a roof again,' said Wilson.
Frank told his son Eddie to get a horse and ride to Burketown to tell the police what had happened. He also told him to call in at Iluka on the way, to alert the soldiers stationed there. The message was that a plane might have gone down near Moonlight Creek, on Marless Station,
As Eddie Walden rode into the night, for the first time in days Crosson did not think about death.