Flight of the Forgotten. Mark A. Vance
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the tragic ending to what had happened so long ago. It was, needless to say, a very emotional time. My parents were with me, fulfilling a promise my mother had made to herself as a young girl four decades before to one day visit the place that had caused our family so much heartache.
When the three of us eventually arrived at the entrance to the American Military Cemetery at Cambridge, I was struck by the sheer magnitude of the place, as I gazed for a long time at the 3,811 white crosses. The Wall of the Missing near the entrance contained the names of another 5,125 American Airmen Missing in Action, including Glenn Miller and Joseph Kennedy, the eldest brother of President John F Kennedy. Joseph Kennedy had been missing in action since his B-24 exploded in flight during a top secret mission, and his brother Teddy had been one of the senators I had contacted for help.
My parents and I soon decided to part to speed the search of the seemingly endless rows of crosses that stretched across the grounds of the cemetery. As I was walking along a distant row, Buster suddenly appeared, motioning me to come toward him. As I did, I found him standing next to the grave of S/Sgt. Albert Natkin, the right-waist gunner of the Jack Ketchum crew.
“Thanks for coming. This isn’t our place, but they still remember us here.” he said, gesturing at the white cross. “Albert is still my friend. Death changes nothing.”
“How is he, Buster?” I asked.
“Oh, we’re still together when we want to be. We have other things to do now, though. We all continue developing over here.” he said.
“I brought Mom and Dad with me. We’re going to the crash site.” I said awkwardly.
“I know. I was with you all the way across. Thanks for bringing your mom and dad. Tell Joyce her mother sends her love from over here.”
“I will.” I said, holding back a tear at the thought of my grandma.
“It’s important that you understand the crash site is ours forever. This is all for the families. The crash site is ours and will always be ours.” he insisted, offering a salute and a smile before fading from sight.
“Who were you talking to?” my mother asked a moment later. “I thought I heard you talking to someone.”
“Buster was here.” I replied.
“You saw him?” she said, excitedly.
“Yes. He knows we’re going to the crash site. He said to tell you Grandma sends her love.” I whispered, as my mother began to cry.
September 16, 1989, Gairloch, Scotland
Standing at the scene where Buster and the others had lost their lives invoked the deepest emotional experience of my entire life. I had made him a promise to find out what happened and share it with all the families. Now, actually being at the place where it all happened so long ago brought feelings that were undeniable and virtually overwhelming. The hardest thing was remaining objective and not allowing the investigation to get side-tracked by emotion.
The sensation we each felt as we reached the main impact point the next morning is something none of us will ever forget. Working with local guides, we reached the crash site after a forty-five minute climb from the small fishing village at the base of the coastal mountain range. My endless quest for answers had carried us to a small, shallow loch nestled inside several rugged cliffs that towered above us like graveside monuments. In the distance, pieces of the airplane glistened in the sunlight. It was the holiest of holy places. The man who had nurtured me all my life and saved me many times from certain disaster had died here with his friends and comrades. This was the place my life was all about! That mysterious veil originated here and I had come to lift it.
Walking slowly down the trail to the loch that day, it was as if invisible doors suddenly parted and I could hear a voice behind me say “Welcome Mark.” None of the others with me heard it or seemed aware of an intense, ghostly presence that literally surrounded the loch that day. They were, however, well aware of the incredible sense of foreboding that still permeates the stricken bomber’s crash site.
The final resting place of the Jack Ketchum crew is a small, shallow loch with an overpowering unearthly component that absolutely exudes a feeling of sudden, violent death. It is an area devoid of sound, where a pervasive sadness fills the air, crying out over the injustice of it all. The scene is quite literally the domain of the dead, where intense local superstition and folklore date back for centuries. According to the locals, the area has been inhabited by leprechauns and other creatures of the forest since the beginning of recorded time. Since that tragic day in 1945, many in the area have reported seeing lightning strikes in the loch out of a clear blue sky and countless ghostly images of men in flight suits that push and shove the unwanted down the hillside. Decades after the crash, it remains a local dare to enter the crash site alone and remain any length of time during the day. Entering after dark is never even considered.
None of that was any concern to me. I never felt more welcome anywhere than I did right there. It was, however, quite clear to me during the entire time that we were not alone. High above us on a surrounding peak, a huge ram stood motionless, watching over us. It was as if he was saying, “Who are you? Why are you here? No one comes here.” and I wondered if he understood that we were trying to help. The strange ambiance and sun glistening off the aircraft wreckage in the bright sunlight made the whole place quite surreal, like the gateway to another dimension. Near the shoreline, the bomber’s stainless steel landing gear struts still shone as brightly as they had that fateful day in 1945. Nothing tarnishes stainless steel, not even sudden death.
It was obvious right away that a great deal of the wreckage had been moved at some point by heavy equipment. Those struts didn’t get on the side of the loch by accident. Why anyone would do that and not actually remove the wreckage seemed odd. The loch had also been drained at some point. A deep trench had been dug, allowing the water to drain into an adjacent loch below the main one. That trench had then been refilled by the heavy earth-moving equipment. We would later learn from the locals that the U.S. military returned to the crash site six months after the crash with scores of heavy equipment, blocking access to it for weeks as they worked there in secret. That too seemed odd since there was still armament at the site and nothing from the airplane appeared to have actually been removed. All the bodies had supposedly been accounted for and buried at Cambridge within days of the crash. What could the U.S. military have been looking for?
September 17, 1989, Gairloch, Scotland
The main impact point at the loch itself was the emotional center of the investigation, but most of the work was actually done elsewhere. The dozens of square miles of terrain encircling the crash site had to be combed for evidence. That meant a detailed search of surrounding hilltops, grassy fields and thick rain-drenched forests that rivaled their counterparts in South America.
A check of the high ridge above the main impact point had shown no evidence of scarring, and it was obvious the aircraft’s pitch-down angle at impact exceeded 70 degrees, a virtual plunge. The force of the big bomber hitting the ground that day tore through the shallow water and silt instantly, as the B-24 disintegrated against the solid rock layer only a few feet below the surface of the loch. To this day, the loch remains a place where sudden violent death seems to hang in the air like the morning mist.
The natural beauty of the scenery contrasted with this violence is what I remember most about Scotland. The men’s presence was so strong at the main impact point that I felt it necessary to offer an explanation before actually moving any piece of the wreckage. “I’m checking this piece because I need to see if … or for any sign of …” I kept repeating over and over. To stand there with a dry eye was a challenge few could meet. I recall the expression on my mother’s face as she finally realized her goal of visiting the place that had caused our family so much pain. It was as if all her memories came flooding back then and with them the tears. My father, who had witnessed so much death and destruction in that same war, was overwhelmed by the incredible sadness that envelops the loch. It is an incredibly haunting sadness that reaches deep inside you every minute you’re there