Rescue on Pinetree
This is a true account of a life-saving rescue that took place during my tour of duty at the 640th ACWRON, Stephenville, Newfoundland during the winter of 1963-64. Anyone that has experienced the wrath of a winter storm as a resident of "Pinetree" will appreciate the validity of what I am about to relate. Some of you who actually survived that event will recall vividly the terrifying experience of that cold, stormy evening. My purpose in writing of this experience is to recognize the quick thinking and selfless, brave action of then Major Loring B. Smith and the team that participated in this rescue.
I was stationed at the 640th from May 1963 through May 1964. I was a young twenty-year old A/2C when I arrived at "Pinetree" in the spring of 1963. After a short stint in radar ops as a "scope dope", I was assigned the full time additional duty as mail clerk and courier for the site. I performed this duty for the majority of my assignment there. I made daily runs down the mountain carrying outbound mail and distribution to Ernst Harmon Air Force Base located adjacent to the small town of Stephenville. I would pick up incoming mail and distribution and transport it back to the radar site.
Access to the site was a steep, narrow, treacherous, one-way gravel roadway carved into the side of Table Mountain. Traffic was controlled by a security policeman on duty around the clock from a small guard shack located at the entrance to the site atop the mountain. There was an unmanned station at the bottom of the mountain where all traffic was required to check in by phone or two-way radio prior to beginning the one-way accent. This was critical as there was only space for one vehicle to traverse the approximate three mile section of narrow roadway. A bulldozer from the site and snow blowers from Harmon maintained the roadway attempting to keep it clear of drifting snow in the winter months.
Upon returning from my run to Harmon one late winter afternoon, I noticed a storm was moving in. The wind was rising and blowing snow was beginning to reduce visibility. I could no longer see the radomes atop the mountain. I had driven an all-wheel drive nineteen passenger bus that day as I often did to accommodate troops from the hill for their laundry and BX runs. By the time I arrived at the check-in point at the bottom of the "hill", the storm was rapidly intensifying and visibility was deteriorating due to the blowing snow and approaching early winter darkness. I checked in by radio with the security policeman on site and advised him of the deteriorating conditions and low visibility.
Meanwhile, two other vehicles, all-wheel drive "six-packs" as they were called arrived on scene headed up the "hill". I listened on my radio as the senior director on duty in radar operations and others in our convoy of higher rank than myself discussed the situation. The senior director on duty had access to real-time radar imaging as well as current weather and forecasting. He was in the driver’s seat as to the decision to close the access road or have us make the ascent. I will never forget his name. However, I am omitting it from this accounting, as no purpose would be served by revealing his identity given the outcome of the event. I’m confident if he is alive today, he remembers and regrets the incident, and would change the decision he made that day if he could.
We were directed to proceed up the mountain. He would send the Caterpillar dozer down to clear the road and escort us to the site. The dozer could negotiate a 360 degree turn on the roadway. The dozer operator was a local civilian employee whose name I cannot recall. I applaud his bravery, as he put his own life at risk that day.
By now the storm was turning into a full-fledged blizzard. Snowfall was becoming heavy and the wind was whipping it into a condition we referred to as a "whiteout". The temperature was already below freezing and the wind chill was below zero and falling rapidly.
It was decided that one of the "sixpacks" would lead the way with my vehicle second. The other "sixpack" would follow. With great reservation, we began the ascent. The lead vehicle had a two-way radio enabling the two of us to converse. The truck following me had no radio. As we crept up the road struggling to see the roadway and each other, we eventually saw the lights of the "cat" slowly making it’s way down to us. Upon sighting our vehicles, he turned the dozer and began to crawl back up the road. The higher we went, the worse the conditions became. I could barely make out the truck that was no more than six feet in front of me. Suddenly, the lead vehicle came to a stop. The driver informed me over the radio that he had lost sight of the "Cat". We were now stranded in a total "white out" North Atlantic blizzard, unable to go forward or back.
Conversation crackled on the radio between our little convoy and the senior director as to what our next move would be. Discussions included staying put and waiting out the storm. We soon became aware that would not be an option. The storm was huge with winds gusting over one hundred miles an hour. It would rage throughout the night and early morning before subsiding. The "cat" eventually arrived back on site alone. The operator related the terrible conditions and stated that he was lucky to find his way back. Major Smith then had operations advise us that he was bringing a rescue team on foot to bring us in.
A least two hours had passed since we began our attempt to reach the site. Total darkness now engulfed us as the storm raged outside our vehicle. The temperature outside plunged and snow was beginning to drift over the hood of the bus. I would open the door from time to time to prevent the drifting snow from blocking our way out. There were some eight other persons on the bus with me. I remember in particular one friend, A/2C Woods. He was wearing fatigues and low quarter shoes. He had his parka but no other cold weather gear. No one in the convoy was fully prepared to venture into these harsh conditions afoot. We all knew this was going to be rough. We could only wait for the rescue team. I wondered if they would even find us in this blinding storm.
Approximately another hour dragged by. The wind howled and shook the bus. The temperature inside the bus was falling rapidly even with the engine running and the heat at maximum. Conversation dwindled. A strange silence fell as the reality of our situation became evident. We waited.
Suddenly there was movement and a loud banging on the door of the bus. I opened the door and there stood someone in full arctic gear, yelling for us to "let’s go." We put on all the cold weather gear we had, leaving everything else behind and stepped out into the raging storm. Major Smith and four or five volunteers had made it to us. They had a long heavy rope, which we were told to grab onto and not let go for anything. They didn’t have to worry about me. They also had flashlights that were all but useless for more than two or three feet away. We began the laborious trek up what we hoped was the roadway. The snow had already drifted several feet deep. With every step you would sink to your crotch. I wasn’t wearing my "iron pants". However, I did have my thermal underwear on underneath my fatigues. I was wearing my combat boots and thermal socks. I zipped my parka up fully which left only a "peephole" through the fur on the hood.
It was an exhausting effort. I remember someone crying and saying they couldn’t make it. Those of us that could helped others that were struggling. I know I had no feeling in my hands and feet. I just hung on. After what seemed like an eternity, we could see the lights and structures of the compound. We made our way into the mess hall and fell exhausted to the floor. Thank God! We had made it.
The following afternoon after the storm cleared, I took a team down the hill in a trackmaster to try to locate our vehicles. There was no sign of them. The road itself was indiscernible due to the deeply drifted snow. We knew they were somewhere below "J curve", a tight dangerous curve near the top of the mountain. The snow had totally covered the bus and two trucks. We tried to estimate the location and using a long pole as a probe, we searched for the vehicles. After some time, we finally hit something. It was the roof of the bus buried more than three feet beneath the snow. At that moment, I knew we had cheated death. It was an eerie feeling. Had Major Smith not made the decision to come to our rescue, all persons, approximately twenty men would have perished on that mountainside that night.
Although some of the men suffered mild to moderate frostbite, we all recovered and lived to talk about the experience. They say that freezing to death is a somewhat easy way to go. Thanks to the heroic efforts of Major Loring Smith and the other members of that rescue team, none of the men involved in this incident experienced that phenomenon. I know I owe my life to them, and I’m eternally grateful for their efforts. Thanks guys, wherever you are.
Gerald E. (Jerry) Goodson
M/Sgt. USAF, Retired