Part 13

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 in local 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 of military 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. Surface winds 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 at Bermuda. 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 flight is 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 tanks and 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 the spiral 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 no higher 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 higher we 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 became _mature 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 long glide to increase the air speed, when the left scanner claimed the interphone circuit with, 'Black smoke and flame coming from number 1.' This time we _were_ in 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.

_12._ TRAILING THE TERRIBLE TYPHOON

"_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.