Flight of the Forgotten. Mark A. Vance
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I could help him one day.”
“Oh, my!”
“I know it probably sounds strange to you, but he’s the main reason I’m here, Mom. It’s my destiny to tell people what happened to those men. Buster watches over me so I can do that. I’m here to help Buster and his crew. It’s my mission in life.”
“Did he say that?”
“Not in so many words, just that they planted a seed in me years ago and it’s time now for that seed to start growing.” I replied.
“I … I don’t know what to say,” my mother exclaimed.
“Don’t say anything. This is really bigger than all of us. Those men need me to uncover the truth. I’m going to find the truth.” I said, completely unaware that I was on the threshold of an intense ten-year investigation. “I need your help to get started, Mom.”
“How?”
“Well, what I need to get the ball rolling is Buster’s serial number, his burial location, that sort of thing.” I said, jotting the information down and handing the paper across to her.
Staring at the sheet of paper for a moment, my mother finally managed, “Your dad and I will probably see Uncle Clarence at the family reunion next week. I could ask him about it then if you want me to. I’m sure he still has Buster’s letters to the family and the rest of the information you need. He could never give them up.”
“That would be great. Just make sure he understands I’m trying to help.” I reminded her.
“I will.” she said hesitantly.
“What is it?” I asked.
“You said you’ve seen him? Buster, I mean?” she asked timidly.
“I’ve seen him, Mom. As a matter-of-fact, he’s standing right over there by the bookcase.” I said cautiously, gesturing toward the bookcase as her eyes widened in amazement.
“Oh, my!” she cried out as the realization that I was telling her the truth suddenly settled on her.
January 4, 1989, Houston, Texas
With the information my mother managed to obtain from Uncle Clarence in hand, the next place to turn was obvious. My good friend John Sandersen, an airline captain and senior officer in the U.S. Naval Reserve, was the perfect person to locate and access a report within the U.S. military. All the information I had to offer him at the time was Buster’s serial number, his initial burial location and the fact that his airplane had suffered a mysterious in-flight explosion near Gairloch, Scotland on June 13, 1945. No other details were available.
Everything still seemed routine. I was making a simple request for information about a loved one killed in the line of duty a long time ago on behalf of his surviving brothers and sisters. In spite of my uncle’s spiritual involvement, I never envisioned anything out of the ordinary, much less that I was making a request for classified, top secret information sealed forever inside a buried O.S.S. file. The O.S.S. was the forerunner to the modern CIA and the CIA still guarded its forerunner’s secrets with fanaticism. I would also eventually discover in our search that the contents of that file happened to be one of the most closely-guarded American military secrets of the Second World War.
“You know, who’d really be good at this is Joe McDermot.” my friend suggested. “He was in the R.A.F. in World War II.”
“R.A.F.? Why the Brits?” I asked.
“Oh, “Big Joe” is an American. He joined the Royal Canadian Air Force when the war started, and his unit was assigned to the Royal Air Force in Great Britain. He flew all kinds of stuff for the R.A.F. He’s even knighted, for Christ’s sake!” John exclaimed. “If anybody can find out about World War II stuff, Big Joe can. The World War II guys usually talk better to one of their own anyway.” he said knowingly.
“You mean there’s a generation gap in the military?”
“You better believe it! The first question after ‘who are you?’ is ‘why do you want to know?’” he insisted. “So, what am I going to tell the World War II guys when they ask me?” he prompted.
“Well, it’s for the families of the men killed.” I replied.
“Not good enough.”
“How about … as a pilot I’d really like to know what happened to my uncle after all these years.” I declared.
“Not good enough.”
“Not good enough? What about my Uncle Clarence. He’s never been the same since his brother Buster was killed.” I said hopefully.
“Was he a veteran?” John asked.
“Oh, yeah, World War II infantry. Fought all over France and Germany.
He probably shouldn’t be alive. He’s every bit as much a hero as his brother was. He just managed to survive.”
“Really went into a shell after huh?” John asked.
“Big time. They say sometimes he’ll disappear for days if he’s having flashbacks to the war. He hasn’t opened up to anybody about it since he came home and losing Buster was the final blow. It’s like his brother just stepped off the planet and all that’s left of him is the mystery. Uncle Clarence watched a lot of men die in the war, but losing his brother was the last straw for him. Not knowing why though is the worst.”
“I can imagine.” John said.
Then I looked at my friend and said carefully, “Oh, that reminds me, there’s another element to this you need to be aware of.” trying to sound as low key as possible.
“What’s that?”
“The men are involved. They asked me to do this.”
“What men?”
“The crew. The Jack Ketchum crew.” I said.
“Uh-huh, right.” my friend grunted, readjusting himself in his seat and stirring the drink in his hand without making eye contact.
“No, really.” I insisted, looking right at him, forcing him to eventually return my gaze.
After a moment, he prompted, “The whole crew?” as I nodded earnestly. “And what are they doing, begging you for help in the dark?” he charged.
“Not exactly, but you’re not far off.”
“Are you pulling my leg?” he demanded, questioning everything I was trying to tell him.
“No. I’m totally serious.” I insisted.
“Well …” he stammered, hesitating for some time to consider his next move. After several moments of long, awkward silence, my friend eventually declared, “Okay, I’ll do it … but only for your Uncle Clarence. I can’t help the dead. If it does your Uncle Clarence some good, it’ll be worth it. The World War II guys will do it to help a fellow veteran. They wouldn’t do it for you or me.”
“Whatever it takes. I really appreciate it, John.” I said, handing him the folder with Buster’s military information inside.
“No sweat. I’ll make a few phone calls and have Big Joe follow them up. He likes doing things like that and just so you’re clear about him, Big Joe is still a hero in England. He can pick up the phone and call the Queen if he wants to.” John said matter-of-factly.
“Excellent! He sounds like the man.”
“Yes, but he can’t talk to the dead.” John replied, still eyeing me skeptically.
“He doesn’t have to. They’ll know what he’s doing.” I said, returning his gaze. “By the way, I’d appreciate it if you kept that part of it under your hat.”