Flight of the Forgotten. Mark A. Vance
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Introduction
This is the true story of fifteen American airmen who were brutally murdered when a bomb aboard the B-24 they were ferrying back to the United States in 1945 exploded. The airplane burst into flames and crashed near the town of Gairloch, on the fog-shrouded coast of Northwestern Scotland. The men lost in that crash had all survived a minimum of 35 harrowing combat missions over the heart of Nazi Germany during the bloodiest conflict the world has ever known. One of them, John H. Hallissey, had flown over 50 missions. Another had flown 65. Although they withstood the best that Hitler could throw at them, they could not withstand the machinations of rogue elements within their own government, who cold-bloodedly planted deadly explosive charges aboard their homeward-bound aircraft.
The precise details of what happened over Gairloch, and why, may always remain a mystery, since the majority of U.S. Government documentation relating to the events depicted here remains permanently buried inside a top secret O.S.S. file. The remainder is closed to the American public under various exclusions to the Freedom of Information Act. Could it be that there is something in the report that, even to this day, would embarrass high government officials and agencies? Could it be that these people indeed have something to hide? This book is a public counter to official efforts by the U.S. Government to have the men and events portrayed here forever forgotten.
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In the final weeks and days of World War II, allied armies, in frantic competition with each other and desperate to end the war with Japan began scouring Nazi research facilities and factories. They were searching for the scientific and technical secrets behind the V-2 rocket, the ME-262 jet-propelled fighter plane, and the grand prize of all, atomic fission. Every tool, every prototype, every device suspected of containing secret information of some military value was immediately confiscated after Germany’s surrender.
Items that fell into American hands were shipped through France to bases in England and then on to the United States. It was a top secret operation run by military authorities under the direction of the O.S.S., the Office of Strategic Services, and forerunner to today’s CIA. All my research and intuition led me to believe that Jack Ketchum and his crew were innocent victims of this covert operation while awaiting transportation back to their home towns and families. They saw something that they should not have seen, or at least were thought to have done so by certain operatives of the O.S.S. At that moment they were marked for elimination, and in the days that followed actually survived one failed effort to kill them before that fateful day at Gairloch.
I do not make this assertion lightly. As a 20,000 hour airline captain, I am staking both my personal and professional reputation on its accuracy. I also have first-hand knowledge of many of the events described on the following pages.
The research I have done has been far-reaching, exhaustive and meticulous, lasting over a period of almost ten years. I have read dozens of debriefing reports on the combat flights of the Jack Ketchum crew and many others. I have been in direct contact with living contemporaries of the Ketchum crew, and with authorities and historians in both our military and the Royal Air Force. The closer I got to the truth, the more the military and governmental authorities worked to prevent further inquiry or disclosure.
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My commitment to discover the truth about this forgotten crew began much earlier in my life. From my earliest years, I felt the very real presence of my uncle, Staff Sergeant Raymond E. (Buster) Davis, tail gunner on the Ketchum crew. Many times I could actually hear his words. As a boy, I did not know that this kind of experience was unusual. For me, it was simply a very natural aspect of my world. Buster has been with me throughout my life, and it was to him that I promised to discover the truth about his own death and the deaths of his comrades. At other times, I have been surrounded by the spiritual presences of the entire crew, especially during my visit to the crash site at Gairloch.
Let me recount here one of those interesting experiences. In March, 1988, I decided to follow through on the recommendation of a friend and schedule an appointment with the staff at Camp Chesterfield in Indiana. Camp Chesterfield, founded by the Indiana Society of Spiritualists in the late 1800’s, is located just a short drive North of Indianapolis and could easily pass for a small Midwestern college, complete with cafeteria and dormitory facilities. It is dedicated to advancing the study of “spiritualism and naturalism,” with regular classes and workshops held throughout the academic year.
On the grounds of the facility, in rows of neatly kept small white cottages, several highly-regarded professional psychics and mediums reside year round, allowing them an insulated existence from the outside world. It was the first time in my life anybody has ever asked me to shake their hand so they could see for themselves how I was feeling rather than just asking me.
I was scheduled for several appointments over a three-day period with three different individuals. Each session was scheduled for ninety minutes, but I learned very quickly that our concept of time does not hold true in the spirit world and the sessions often ran well beyond that.
I remember my first session very vividly. I sat across the table from a young man of approximately my own age. He asked me to think of the names of the entities I wished to communicate with. He then sat back and began focusing over my left shoulder, as I sat directly across from him watching intently. What happened next, he later told me, was unlike anything he had ever experienced as a medium. He had never seen so many entities trying to communicate with one living being before in all the years he had been practicing.
After a few moments, he looked directly at me and said, “There’s someone special here that wants to say hello. It’s Raymond. Raymond has another name, ‘Buster.’” In response, I stared at him in awe.
“Does that name mean anything to you?” the medium asked, as I nodded in silence. “Your uncle is saying not to feel sorry for him. He’s okay. He says it took a long time, but now you’re finally in a position where you can help them, and that’s why they contacted you. Yes, they contacted you. You didn’t think it was all your idea, did you?” the medium declared, relaying my uncle’s teasing.
“There’s someone else here.” he quickly continued. “Jack … Ketchum? Does that sound right?” he asked, as I nodded again in amazement. “Well, there’s a Jack Ketchum here. What would you like me to ask him?” he asked casually, unaware of the significance of the contact.
Sensing an opportunity that might never happen again, I immediately went for the home run pitch.
“What happened?” I managed to ask, as the medium continued staring over my left shoulder.
“He wants you and the families to know that it wasn’t his fault. He says there were two, timed explosive charges in addition to all the anomalies they were having with the airplane.”
“My God …” I managed as I stared intently at the man.
“He says they were having all kinds of problems with navigation and communication, and that’s why he decided to circle and figure them out. He wants you to know as an aircraft commander yourself that there wasn’t anything he could do to prevent the crash. It’s important to him that you