In "The Lonely Times," I wrote a brief account of how I found myself situated in one of the furthest corners of the earth, the northwest part of Greenland near the Eskimo village of Thule. Now I would like to describe in detail some of the other activities that occurred during that short period of my life.

It began on August 11, 1951. There were six or eight officers and enlisted men in our office of the Chief Pilot Section and for several weeks prior to my departure, they occasionally teased me by singing a few words of a then popular song entitled "Truly, Truly, Fair," but substituting "Thule," for the word "Truly." Thule, Greenland, pronounced Too'-ly, was my ultimate destination, located 650 miles north of the Arctic Circle at the head of Baffin Bay. At the time, it was one of the most remote operational air bases in the world.

We lifted off on that eventful day in a four engine C-54 cargo plane and flew non-stop the approximate 1,000 miles north to Goose Bay, Labrador. I couldn't help but recall those three frantic, fear-filled days spent there five years earlier preparing to fly across the Atlantic on our way to England and war. Although we were involved in an armed conflict with North Korea, it seemed far removed. Fear was replaced by curiosity and awe, anticipating sights I had never seen before. Look as I may, I could find nothing familiar. The entire base had changed drastically since its use as a "jumping off" point for overseas assignments.

Leaving Goose Bay, I will admit to a certain amount of apprehension as I looked down at the frigid, iceberg choked waters of Baffin Bay. When the barren, rugged mountains along the west coast of Greenland appeared, I was definitely awed by the limitless expanse of desolation below us and hoped that our old aircraft still had the strength and power to carry us the remaining 1,400 miles. It did, and I stepped out into a world I had only seen pictures of in grade school geography books. I knew that the area would be devoid of trees, having seen the last of them hundreds of miles back as we approached the tundra country, but the overall starkness of the region was a shock in the weeks ahead I would see unparalleled beauty.

In the early years of the Cold War, due to the huge military build-up and aggressive attitude of the USSR, our country was forced into spending millions of dollars doing pretty much the same thing, but much of it in preparing defensive measures. One of them was called the Dew Line, a string of Radar Stations all across northern Canada to detect any enemy move from over the North Pole. When the USSR began building a military base on their side of the Pole, in northern Siberia, we did likewise at Thule, Greenland under a mutual agreement with Denmark who owned Greenland. When I arrived at Thule, it was still under construction and consequently few amenities were available.

Arising on my fist morning, I went to the latrine, washed and shaved and was about to head for the mess hall when I glanced at my watch. It was only 3:00, although the sun was well up. I had forgotten that I was now in the "land of the midnight sun." At that latitude during the summer months, the sun remains above the horizon 24 hours a day. So I went back to bed. Bed was a typical army cot, along with four or five others, in a small frame hut with a tent top.

Approaching 8:00, I asked one of my bunkmates how far it was down to the Operations Building, and when he replied that it was a mile or so, I said, "Damn, I'll be late on my first morning." No you won't" he said, "Your jeep is parked right outside." My Jeep? I couldn't believe it. Never before in my entire military career had I ever been provided with a jeep for my own personal use. Driving down to the flight line, I could not have been happier, nor more proud if I had been driving a Cadillac. However, my joy was short-lived. My immediate C.O., a Captain who had flown up with me from Westover, had not been as fortunate and promptly requisitioned my precious jeep. Rank has its privileges!

Operations was housed in a small frame building which included a waiting room for incoming and outgoing personnel, a counter top where I would prepare flight forms, aircraft fuel loads, etc., and the weather room. The control tower, which was included in my duties, was absolutely the most primitive affair I had ever seen. It consisted of four standard, windowed doors nailed together in the shape of a box, pushed up and secured through a square hole cut in the roof.

As for equipment, it contained just one item--a set of earphones. The mike I had to carry with me each time I climbed up the homemade ladder to give take off or landing instructions to the pilots. As for those "instructions," they were quite simple. We only had one short, gravel runway and there was seldom more than two aircraft over the field at any one time. Just the same, we still had a few very scary situations.

Along with the lack of modern communication facilities, the capricious Arctic weather was always a force to reckon with. Summer temperatures averaged in the 30's at night and possible low 50's in the day time. Therefore, fog was our greatest threat, and especially in September when the night time temperatures began dropping. It was not unusual for a plane to be turning on final approach and suddenly become completely enveloped in a ball of fog. The pilot would then have to throttle fast and hard, pull up and make another go-around, sometimes making two or three attempts.

On another occasion, poor visibility very nearly caused what would have been a terrible tragedy. a thin veil of fog hanging low over the field created an optical illusion for an incoming pilot. Our tent-top living quarters, positioned side by side in a straight line, paralleled the runway, on the opposite side from the Operations and maintenance buildings. The tan color of the canvas tents was similar to the color of the gravel runway. I was in the control tower having just given a landing O.K. to the pilot, but as he turned on his final approach, I noticed that he was wide to the right. He had mistaken the tent tops for the runway. Just as I yelled to pull up, he realized his error.

Those ponderous, old C-54 transports don't respond to sudden changes in flight altitude like today's jet aircraft. Reciprocal engines simply don't have the thrust of a jet engine. In this case, the pilot managed to lift the nose and increase his speed, while slowly gaining altitude. Of course, during those few seconds, he roared down the entire length of the huts, just a few feet above their tops. It was almost comical seeing the men tumbling out of the doors and rolling on the ground. About fifteen minutes later, a badly shaken, sweaty pilot stepped into Operations, still shaking his head in disbelief.

When a plane goes down, investigative officials immediately attempt to determine which of four basic reasons was the cause : 1. weather, 2. mechanical malfunction, 3. navigational error, or 4. pilot error. In all cases, many more people are involved , all of whom play an important part from take-off to landing of every individual aircraft. The ability of each of those people, whether in the air or on the ground, is vital to the safety of the plane, but they too, are also prone to human error. Such was the situation in which I found myself one nerve-wracking night. Oh sure, I could list many legitimate excuses which caused my error, but excuses don't hold any weight in a court of inquiry. For example, exhaustion and/or stress. They are quickly written off. In plain language, I goofed, but fortunately nothing serious occurred, other than a long night for me.

A plane had departed with about thirty men on board, bound for the states. Their first stop was to be Goose Bay, Labrador, but when their E.T.A. came and went without confirmation from Goose Bay, I became concerned. My concern soon became terror when I realized that I had neglected to send a departure telex to Goose, so they had no way of knowing that a plane was enroute. I then sent a belated telex and their Search and Rescue Unit was alerted. I also recalculated the plane's fuel load to determine how many minutes of flying time the plane would have if they got lost and missed Goose Bay. That was my "sweat time!" And sweat I did. Sure enough, they had gotten lost--navigational error, and were wandering all over that part of Canada. Luckily they finally got their bearings and landed safely, but with near empty tanks. As for me, well I had learned a severe lesson and ultimately became a much better control tower operator.

Not every day was stressful. There were relaxing times too. Since I was attached, rather than assigned to the small Air Force unit at Thule, I had much more freedom that the other fellows. For instance, I was not required to fall out for formations, such as Reveille or other formal occasions. I had only to perform my duty at Operations, twelve hours on, 12 hours off, seven days a week. My off-duty hours were mine to do as I wished. I should make it clear that attached personnel, such as myself were on T.D.Y.--Temporary Duty, while assigned personnel were classed as permanent. My assigned base was Westover Field, Massachusetts.

As I had mentioned earlier, our living and working facilities were primitive to say the least, and one of those facilities being the latrine. At the end of the row of sleeping quarters was a small structure, which in years gone by was commonly called an "outhouse," or a two-holer." Ours had four holes. It was in that edifice of morning relief where I first met The Great White Father. He was a white haired Lieutenant Colonel who had, no doubt, joined the military before I was born. For the first time in my own military career, I found myself sitting next to an officer in of all places an out house. Normally such facilities were strictly regulated between officers and enlisted personnel.

In any event, he was a kindly and likable person and did not hesitate to share a few stories, most of which I have long forgotten. I believe he was serving in an Engineering capacity at the time, while awaiting retirement, but in the course of his long career he had a lot of flying hours and experiences under his belt. Most notable and the one I will never forget, is that he was the first man to ever land a plane on the Greenland Ice Cap, and that occurred in 1928. I was only three years old that year. I truly regret that we could not have spent more time together. I would have learned a lot and been much the wiser as a result. However, he worked mostly in the construction area so I saw him only infrequently in the course of a working day.

One morning when I was working at the counter in Operations, busy filling out an aircraft departure form, a fellow stepped into the tiny waiting room and promptly asked, "Sergeant, can you tell me--without looking up, I interrupted saying, "hold on a minute buddy, I'll be right with you." He apologized, but I finished what I was doing before facing him. What a shock! He was a brigadier General. It was the first time I had ever been that close to a General and to make matters worse, had called him "buddy!" Well, he immediately put me at ease and apologized a second time for bothering me. When I finally found my tongue, we enjoyed a few minutes of pleasant conversation. I put him on the next plane out, but down through the years, I have often wondered if he told the same story to his friends and family, as I am doing now.

One night in October, when we were experiencing the first darkness in weeks, the runway lights went out due to a short circuit; with an inbound plane less than an hour out. Under any circumstances, that would constitute an emergency, but at our isolated outpost in the vastness of the Arctic, it was certain death. Try to imagine flying in an old propeller driven aircraft non-stop over iceberg congested Baffin Bay, and after 1,400 miles knowing that only one short, gravel runway was available. Finding it would be possible, but landing on it in total darkness was not.

Because of the existence of "Perma-frost", the wires could not be buried, and they were strung like spaghetti all around the perimeter of the runway. Since there was no time to run a trace of the whole circuit, we resorted to setting out fire-pots. They were round metal globes about eight inches in diameter, filled with fuel oil. With a wick, they were similar to an old fashioned kerosene lantern, and in those days were commonly used in highway construction areas. In just a few minutes, we had a plan in operation. While two fellows dashed all around the base in a truck picking up and filling extra pots, two of us loaded what we had available on the hood of a jeep and drove along the edge of the runway placing them a few feet apart. Another guy ran behind me lighting them and he was soon assisted by others. As the last pots were being lighted, I ran to a field phone located at the end of the runway on an overturned fifty gallon fuel can, to call Operations, but I wouldn't have had to.

At that moment, we saw the lights of the plane off in the distance. We had made it by the narrowest of margins and it was a gratifying feeling as well as a unique sight seeing all those little orange flames flickering in the darkness. But we still held our breath as we watched the plane make two circles over the base before his attempt to land. Following his safe landing, there was quite a congratulatory gathering of people at Operations. That's one thing I found out in the Air Force--when the chips are down, there is no shortage of camaraderie.

Then one day in late October, the welcome news arrived. My tour of duty in Greenland was over, but there still remained the long flight down to Westover Field.

Our first problem occurred just a few hours after take-off when I noticed oil streaming down the starboard wing from number three engine. Soon after that, the pilot ascertained difficulties with the hydraulic system. The landing gear would not stay retracted which created drag, resulting in additional fuel consumption. Being a passenger rather than a crew member only added to my uneasiness.

About halfway down along the west coast of Greenland, there is (or was) a tiny base called Bluie west 8. It was located about ten miles inland at the end of a winding fiord, fringed by jagged mountains, some as high as 10,000 feet. With no other options open, our pilot dropped the plane low and headed into that narrow chasm that seemed to close in on us from both sides. To this day, I can still see those barren ridges towering far above us as we skimmed just over the water. The runway laid straight off the end of the fiord, and we touched down without mishap. Following repairs and a night's sleep, we continued on down to Westover without further problems.

And such was life in the land of the midnight sun. An "after thought," or should I say, one last story recalled. No adventure in the Arctic would be complete without mention of the Eskimos. Actually there is little that I can write about because we were forbidden to have any contact with them whatsoever. There was a good reason for that because they had no immunity to Caucasian diseases. Even measles could be deadly. However there were two occasions worth describing.

The Eskimo village of Thule, for which our base was named, was located within sight, but on the opposite side of the bay from the base. One of the things the Eskimos seemed to enjoy was displaying their prowess with kayaks. I guess just about every kid has read or seen pictures of Eskimos and their kayaks, but to actually see them perform was a real thrill. To watch them scoot across the bay, rolling over and over was absolutely amazing. No story could exaggerate their skill.

Dog Sleds have long since been replaced by snowmobiles, but in 1951, the snowmobile was still in the experimental stage, and dog sleds were in common use. I had not seen one up there until one morning when I was late for work. I came dashing around the corner of a building and in an attempt to stop nearly fell headlong into a string of snarling sled dogs. It's a good thing they were harnessed because my retreat wasn't too fast on my hands and knees. Then I saw the driver standing there with a big grin on his face. I suppose those dogs were like pets to him, but to me they appeared like starving wolves and I wasn't about to determine the difference. Most Eskimos are relatively small in stature, but that guy looked like a giant. He was wearing a very yellowed, one piece outfit made entirely of polar bear hide. For obvious reasons, a polar bear's fur is very thick, which is why the man appeared so big. The dogs had set up quite a howl, so I didn't stick around to ask any questions, provided he even spoke English, besides I was late.

Uncle Bob