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Secret Starm by Larry A. Bergeron
Monday, September 4, 2017
Rated "G" by the Author.
How the hurricane hunters began during a 1943 secret storm that hit SE Texas.
Secret Storm
By Larry A. Bergeron
Shrimp Boats are a comin’
July 26th, 1943 6:42 PM
Sixty-three year old shrimp-boat Captain, Antoine Leblanc, gripped the wheel of his crusty old vessel a little tighter than usual this night, as he guided the Dana Marie over the whitecaps that seemed to be building with each wave. He tugged his New Orleans Pelicans baseball cap down over his balding forehead, wiggled it into place nice and tight, and stared into the growing darkness of the Gulf. Reaching down into his overalls pocket, he grabbed his favorite candy, Bit-O-Honey, un-wrapped it and tossed a strip between his teeth. When he left the dock a half hour before, he had thought that his only worry tonight would be dodging the U-boats patrolling the waters offshore, but now his concerns lay skyward across the horizon of wicked waves.
Coming out of Southwest Pass of Southeastern Louisiana, the crew had been greeted with partly cloudy conditions, calm seas, and an incredible sunset. Along the way down the mighty river, the captains of the large tankers he passed waved to him as he motored by. Captain Leblanc always waved back. “Maybe some day, I’ll be up dare instead of down here wit chew, Dana Marie. I could see da’ worl’, makin the kind’a dough dose guys’re pullin’ in, yea.”
Only the larger vessels, like the Gulf King, had radios, so all of Leblanc’s ship-to-ship communications were done by hand. The captain aboard the King had placed both of his arms up in the air, pointing toward the clouds, then to the open water, shrugging his shoulders, asking why? Leblanc had responded by pulling the lining of his pockets outward, NO – MONEY, he mouthed back over the putter of his engine.
The King’s captain just laughed and waved adieu.
A number of crew boats criss-crossed the path of the Dana Marie from Buras to Venice, each making their way from the docks on the populated side of the river to the barren oilfields of Grand and Black Bay that lay between the muddy Miss and the Gulf of Mexico. Leblanc tooted his whistle each time one passed by, leaving a cloud of black smoke from their twin diesel engines in his wake. Antoine was always happy to clear the final waterway to the thriving little oil town that lay at the end of Highway 23. From there on, it would be clear sailing into his “land of opportunity,” and the bounty that lay beneath the surface of the Gulf of Mexico. “Looks like it gonna be a good day to catch some shrimps, yea.
Three hours later, the struggle to keep the little boat on course, and his decision to do the night-run for brown shrimp, cast some doubt into the Creole captain’s mind. Seas a-gettin’ bigger,yea, he thought. “Me, I’m glad we here. Gonna be a good nite for us, an ‘dem shrimps. I guarrrr-an-tee.”
Earlier in the evening, stars had peeked through the occasional gray puffs, but now, when he looked to the heavens, the captain saw nothing but black, repeatedly interrupted by the white spray that splashed over the bow soaking everyone on board. Having already set out the nets and prepared the empty ice chambers to accept the rewards of the gulf, his four-man crew was huddled below, awaiting the captain’s order to haul in the catch. “His newest crewman, Jason Breaux, tapped on the window of the cabin and gave a thumbs up.
Leblanc nodded and tugged his cap down a little more, leaning determinedly into the oncoming weather. “Dem’ shrimps sure to be runnin’ from dis’ weatha’ tonite and dey’ gonna’ run right in ta’ us.”
The large gray nets hung out on both sides of the little vessel covering over sixty yards of roaring water. The engine groaned, and the iron creaked against aging wood as the water tugged the rope blanket through the waves. The booms hung low over the whitecaps like gallows over a crowd, ready for a hanging.
Leblanc strained to see through the splashes of the oncoming sea and looked back at the nets which were bouncing up and down in the froth. First left, then right, “Dem’ net’ fillin’ with shrimps damn fas’, he thought, as if dey’ anxious to get on board.”
“Bring em’ in,” he yelled from the semi-comfort of the cabin and rang the bell. Clang, clang, clang.
His crew sprang into action. The cranks turned and the pulleys squealed with tension as the nets rose slowly from the water. Each crewman held on to whatever was bolted down to keep from being tossed into the sea.
Leblanc stared out over the huge waves in front of him. “Dem’ waves larger dan I ever seen in fifty-two years on da’ water. I swear dis’ win must’a grown to a hunerd’ miles anour.” He popped another candy into his mouth. “Lord, don’t let dis’ got-dam storm get any bigger, no.”
As the nets rose higher and higher, the little boat tossed and turned from one side to the other with the added weight of wriggling seafood. Twenty-foot waves now crashed over the bow. The water rushed down both sides of her slippery deck making rubberized footing of no use. The port net came over the aft cargo hold and dumped its catch into the darkness below. Some tiny fish escaped the nets and leapt across the back of the boat until they managed to slide through the drain holes along the sides and once again into the roaring gulf.
Sheets of rain pelted the men like tiny needles as they dragged the heavy nets into the cargo hold. Amidst the struggle on the aft deck, Captain Leblanc kept one eye on his crew, as his hands struggled to keep the Dana Marie headed directly into the oncoming waves to give her better stability.
Donnie Boudreaux, Antoine’s best boat-hand entered the cabin. “Cap, she don’t long good, no. Maybe we should take this one haul and high-tail it.”
Leblanc licked his lips and swallowed the lingering maple syrup in his mouth. “Not yet, mes amis,” he barked and motioned Donnie back to the nets. The Captain bent forward into the wheel, forcing the bow into the crest of each swell. It took every ounce of strength in him to keep the boat from veering sideways and into the path of a burial wall. They must be twenty-five feet, he thought, as he looked upward to the oncoming surf. Behind him, the starboard net sprang open, emptying its bounty and he grinned.
“May, it look like a couple thou-san pounds in dis’ one haul.” Leblanc took off his cap and wiped his brow. “I knew it, we gonna be some glad when we get home. Mama’s gonna be some proud. Yea, you right.”
The captain’s spirits lifted briefly as he saw the nets swing back over the stern, ready to be secured for the trip home. He turned to watch as the men slowly latched them into place, but his distraction caused his hand to turn the Lisa Marie ever so slightly, and just as it veered away from slicing squarely through the oncoming wave, a wall of water tilted the little craft sideways in mid air.
The four man crew fell to the deck and slid to the port side of the boat where they struggled to hang on. The shrimp and everything else in the bins began to spill out and slide off the deck and back into the ocean. As the boat righted itself, everyone scrambled to latch himself to the side-rail. The power of the wave knocked the captain out of the wheelhouse and onto deck. He struggled to keep his feet, watching his beloved Pelicans cap slosh down the deck and slip thru a side-hole and into the gulf. He grabbed the pilot door just as another huge wall of falling water squashed the little vessel with incredible force.
In a moment, the captain was gone and the Lisa Marie was now upside down in the swirling swells. The lights of the little boat remained lit underwater, spreading an eerie glow through the bubbles. Now underwater, the captain felt an odd sense of peace. He opened his eyes to see his beloved Dana Marie, now floating upside down before him. And just before Captain Antoine Leblanc took his very last breath, it came to him...Dis storm’s got to be one damn big hurricane, yea! ` Shuffle Up and Deal
July 26th, 1943 9:50 PM
World War II aircraft of every imaginable size and shape sat along the runway at a little known Army-Air Corps training base in Bryan, Texas. Some planes bore the star and stripes, some, the French red, white and blue target and others, the well-known British target. Each was anchored to the ground awaiting sunrise. The night sky was calm, clear and warm, and stars were the only lights shinning on the black central Texas asphalt leading back towards the old metal hangar at the end of the field. Its rolling doors sat open, and a lone, shiny silver AT-6 American trainer sat in the middle of the darkness inside. The polished wooden propeller sparkled in the light of the moon and a military green jeep bearing a license plate with the colonel’s insignia, sat next to the aircraft.
One other luminescence shone through a ground level doorway, near the left rear of the hangar and voices could be heard coming from the light. Just inside, was a round, green, leather-covered card table surrounded by military personnel of various rank and nationality. In the center were six stacks of poker-chips representing fifty-two fifty in cash, one week’s salary to those watching the weekly no-limit, Texas-hold’em card game.
Each man was here on orders from his respective headquarters in Europe to learn to fly through heavy cloud cover in order to give the Allies an edge in the air war overseas.
The oldest of the group, Lt. Colonel Joe Duckworth, bit into his Cuban cigar, scratched his balding head and gingerly peeked at his two cards for the umpteenth time.
Captain Ronald T. Collins of the Royal Air Force had raised the colonel’s initial bet of five-fifty, after seeing the flop: jack of diamonds, ace of spades, and ace of hearts.
Following Joe’s opening bid, the other four airmen at the table had quickly folded.
Duckworth’s reputation as a flyer and a gambler preceded him. After all, his knowledge gained from flying twelve thousand hours for Eastern Airlines, had given the authority to start this school for pilots from the U.S. and abroad. The colonel had re-entered the service three years before, for a second tour in the Army-Air Corps, first as a Major, then Lt Colonel after the beginning of the war in Europe.
Duckworth smiled at the two ladies now staring back at him from beneath the cards. “All in,” he grunted at the rolly-polly Collins. Joe sneered over his military issue, Ray-Ban sun glasses that he wore only on days that ended in “y”.
“Duck, you don’t have shit,” snapped the captain. “It’s just that typical, know-it-all, deep as Queen Anne’s ass, American bullshit.”
Joe sat back in a more casual posture, sipping his Jack and Coke. “Well, Collie, there’s only one way to find out, now ain’t there.”
“Colonel, I bet your hand is just about as worthless as that two-bit piece of junk you call an airplane you fly around here every morning, waking the whole damn base up.” Collins spoke with his arms going out in opposite directions. “So, I call your piece-of-shit hand, you Yankee son-of-a-bitch. All in.” The little fat man flipped over his cards: jack of clubs, ten of diamonds. With the flop, that made two pair, aces and jacks.
Joe leaned back up to the table, turned his ladies over and drawled. “Pair a lovely red tight assed British queens.” He received a cold stare from his opponent.
“Figures, you lucky freaking Yank.” Captain Collins stood and walked away from the table, unable to watch the turn. It came anyway…jack of spades. A cheer went up from the British onlookers and Collins flew back to the game, reveling in the moment. “Looks like you’re about to get yer wings clipped there Colonel, right now those ladies just look like two whores in a midnight card game. Ha.”
Joe’s expression never changed. He sipped some more Jack. “Cap, you ever see a goony bird try to take off?”
Collins looked taken back by the question.
Expecting no response, Duckworth answered his own query. “As hard as those ugly little suckers try, they just keep bumpin’ their asses until they’re out a’room or out a’breath. Funny. I figure that’s kinda how you’re gonna’ feel at the end of this here hand. You’ll be gaspin’ for air…and your ass’s gonna’ be real sore.”
The room broke into laughter. Except Collins who now wore a deep red mask of anger.
The dealer burned another card and slowly placed the last card on the table.Another queen. Joe wins. The Colonel winked at the dealer and thanked him as he raked the multi-colored clay chips in. Collins stormed out of the room cursing in disgust, slamming the door behind him.
It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last that Colonel Joe Duckworth would walk home a winner.
His troops gathered round and patted him on the back wishing him heart felt congratulations. “Way to go Colonel, he had it coming,” Duck’s navigator, Ralph O’Hair, hadn’t spoken a word until it was all over but now he wore a shit eating grin a mile long. It didn’t matter whether it was cards, flying the aging, AT-6, or life itself. Ralph knew that Joe was an ace at just about everything he touched, and he respected Joe for what he had accomplished in his military career and for his dedication to training foreign airman to fly, using Duck’s own guidance system and the instruments of the aircraft.
As for Duck, the only thing that did bother him, was the lack of respect his beloved AT-6 got from the combat proven British and French airmen, who were now under his command at the US Army Air Corp’s very first, instrument-rated flying school at Bryan Army Air Field. Mornin’ Dawlin’ July 27th, 5:50 AM The flowers sparkled with morning dew as the sun peeked thru the pine trees at the end of the Bryan runway. Only one set of footprints could be seen in the grass this early…Joe Duckworth’s. He pushed the hangar doors open to reveal his favorite “little lady,” the AT-6 Texan. She was always ready to fly and Joe loved being at the controls of this deceptively powerful little plane. “Mornin’ Dawlin’,” said Joe as he hopped up onto the wing and slid back the canopy. The Texan was the perfect high performance trainer. She was the finest combination of challenges ever built into a military aircraft. She wasn’t easy to fly by any means. In fact, she had a reputation of putting every new pilot that climbed into her cockpit through her paces. A pilot’s proficiency would either benefit from the mental and physical exertion experienced during flight and after flight, or he would pay the ultimate price. But flying this little “wildcat” meant the pilot would definitely get to be a better flyer, or he would die trying. Joe primed the engine, went through his standard pre-flight check list, and then joyfully pressed the little black rubber button. The whine of the starter winding up and the low growl of the engine raised the hair on the back of his neck. Thick black smoke blew out of the exhaust pipes and past the cockpit as the powerful engine roared to life. The cockpit was small compared to most, and with the canopy back, Joe’s elbows extended out past the canopy rails and into mid-air. The control stick came right up out of the floor with a chrome ring at the top. On the dash, beneath his left arm were all of the primary accessory controls, like the elevator, aileron and rudder trims, as well as the landing gear and flap actuators. All of the electronic and radio goodies were on a console by his right arm. No need to call the control tower, no one would be up there this early. Joe was clear to taxi. He pushed the stick forward and she edged out into the morning fog. He could hardly wait for those 600 horses to get her up to full power. Joe guided her with his floor pedals, first left, then right. Soon, he was roaring down the asphalt approaching take-off. “Yee-ha,” yelled the colonel. He always left the canopy open on take-off to experience the rush of the wind flowing by. “All right Dawlin’, let’s go flyin’.” Pulling back on the stick he cleared the telephone wires at the end of the runway and zoomed over the trees. Dive, Dive July 27th 1943, 7 AM Fifty-nine miles southwest of the Mississippi River, where the shrimp, boat the Dana Marie had gone down. Kapitan-leutnant Hans Gunter Kuhlmann of the German Navy peered through the periscope of his U-166 submarine. He studied the tanker moving slowly across his targeting lens. These moments never ceased to amaze him. Just like spying on his neighbor’s daughter, Rachel, as she had dressed for school. Something inside him stirred when he was secretly watching others. He peered into the scope. This one’s flying the red, white and blue from her stern, he thought. Hans enjoyed the voyeurism both then and now. C-class, with no escort. Not a big prize, but it would be another notch in his belt when he reported it to Berlin. His orders were clear, sink anything and everything. In the early morning sky, the U-boat captain could clearly see the gray outline of the long merchant ship against the background of black threatening clouds. He checked the perimeter for oncoming enemy planes. On this day, the sky looked more dangerous than the ocean. The clouds moved across the heavens, racing with the tanker in a southwesterly direction. Any moment now. Just keep going, a little bit more. Boom. Gotcha. As the tanker lit up the morning sky, Hans dropped periscope and took her down. He never watched the ships disappear into the ocean. It always reminded him of the day he lost his mother off the coast of Denmark. During World War I, they were crossing the strait on a ferry, when the blast came from below. Bodies were tossed into the sea and the flames engulfed the deck. His mother grabbed him and jumped into the churning cold water. When he came to the surface, she was gone. It was hard to forget those things when you were eight years old. The captain and crew had spent the past seven months in the Gulf mining the shipping lanes for the war. The Americans had made the decision to enter the fighting, and it was Han’s job to take the fight to their supply ships and deter them from sailing anything that could assist Britain. As he approached the radar screen, Specialist Bregenzer, pointed out the distinct circular formations of a major hurricane approaching from the southeast. The big green screen showed the tell-tale signs of sharply bending rain bands entering their scanning area. The strands of dark green were circulating counterclockwise and the entire storm was churning in a west northwesterly direction from just south of the mouth of the Mississippi River. That put the U-boat squarely within the big storm’s path. Bregenzer checked the barometric pressure. “Started going down around six, and it’s still dropping, sir.” “Looks like we’re in for a big blow,” said Hans. He didn’t want to say the word hurricane out loud. Best keep the crew calm, I’ll warn them when it’s necessary. It was too late to outrun the weather, so the only choice lay deep beneath the surface of the water where the wind was of no matter. “We’ll be better off on the bottom. Take her down.” “Kopfsprung, kopfsprung,” called the helmsman, the bell sounded and down she went. The rush of water could be heard through the thick steel shell of the sub. Then, only the beeping of the depth meter, as she rushed toward the ocean floor. “Level off at seventy meters,” barked the captain. “Then give me a call on the horn. I’ll be in my quarters.” Hans closed the door to his compartment and removed his cap. He wiped the sweat off his brow. Can’t let them see me sweat. He reached into his cabinet to get the captain’s manual on U-boat combat ops. Maybe someone else had tried to outrun a hurricane. He scanned the pages. Weather, page 217. He noted each headline that related to storms. But no hurricane. A first for us, he thought. Berlin will be interested in this trip, if we make it. Half an hour later, the speaker over the captain’s bunk blared to life. “Sir? Sorry sir, but we’ve leveled off, and awaiting your orders, Captain.” “Coming,” answered the Hans. He grabbed his cap and headed down the hallway to the bridge. “Level at seventy, sir.” “Slow descent to the bottom,” directed the captain. “Sir?” questioned the helmsman. “You heard me, lieutenant. We’re going to sit this one out, on the bottom.” “Yes, sir, descending. Take her down easy.” It wouldn’t take long at this depth. Question was, what would they settle on down there? It was like a blind landing in the middle of the night. Only your landing field was seven hundred miles long and filled with rocks. The helmsman held his breath and gripped his chair a little tighter. “Ten seconds, to the floor,” he called. The captain pressed the speaker button on the ship’s mike. “Brace for impact,” he called. “Five seconds.” Creak, bang, thud. Not a bad landing, thought the captain. With that kind of luck, we just might win this war. “Stand down, sailors. We’re gonna be here a while, so make yourself comfortable.” “We’re out of touch from the world, so you might as well get some rest, sir. I’ll let you know if we need you.” The helmsman saluted the captain on a job well done. Hans made his way back to his quarters and wondered if it really would be this easy. No one had ever ridden out a major storm like this one on the bottom of the ocean. He had no idea what to expect. But three hours later, while reliving the capsizing of his mother’s ferry, the squawk box blared again. “Captain, you better get up here. We’ve got a leak!” The helmsman was still calling him on the speaker when the captain rushed into the room. “Damage in the storage locker. sir. Must’ve happened when we hit, didn’t notice it for a while, until it overflowed into the hallway.” “Damn.” Hans knew that would be a lot of trouble at this depth. They were a good eighty meters from the surface and the outside pressure on his craft could crush her in an instant. “There’s something else, sir.” The helmsman pointed to the radar screen. It was completely covered with dark green blotches with the exception of one clear, small circular area in the middle of the storm. “It’s a hurricane,” said the helmsman. “And something else, sir. “Yes, what is it?” “We seem to be moving.” “What?” The captain’s face went white. “Just a little, a few feet every few seconds, like waves pushing us along the floor.” “That’s impossible. Isn’t it?” “Apparently not, sir.” Grawwwl. “There…feel that?” The boat seemed to rock forward, then stop. Now everyone noticed the movement. “Are they working on the leak?” “No, sir, couldn’t find it, but we’ve closed the compartment off from the rest of the ship.” The captain spun toward the radar. “Bregenzer, have you figured out where we are?” “Working on it, sir. Our charts are kind of outdated for this area, but I should have it in a few minutes.” “Let’s check out the damage. Helmsman, you have the bridge.” The Captain and his Lieutenant headed down the walkway to the center section of the boat. When they reached the affected area, the lights flickered. “What the hell?” The Captain slowed his pace and carefully approached a locked hatch. “That’s it, sir. Corporal Hines says it was over a foot deep when he sealed it off from the rest of the ship.” The Captain placed his hand on the metal seal, running it slowly upward, feeling the temperature of the steel as he went. “Well, it’s a lot deeper in there now. Looks to be about five feet, good thing the corporal shut it when he did.” The lights blinked twice more. “Are they working on that?” Both men turned back toward the helm. “Yes sir, the flooded compartment seems to be shorting out the electrical. The plan is to rewire around it, bypassing the flooded area.” “Good, keep me posted.” The Captain rounded the last corner onto the bridge. “Now let’s see where we are. Bregenzer?” “Uh, yes, sir. I have our co-ordinates and we were pretty lucky, sir.” He pointed to an area on the chart, just a few meters east of the Yucatan ridge, an area marked by a sudden drop of two hundred feet to a rocky section of the ocean floor. Wrarrrrrhhh. The radar man was interrupted by a groan coming from outside the vessel. A loud scraping sound followed. The crew held on. They were definitely moving. “That must be some storm, Captain. I mean, to push the ship along the bottom like it is.” “Never underestimate the power of nature, son.” Captain Kuhlmann grabbed the microphone to address the crew. “This is the Captain. You have probably already heard that we have a breech in the storage compartment. This area is secure but it is obviously causing a problem with lighting. That should be corrected shortly. I want to also make you aware of a storm that is moving into our area. It’s obviously pushing us along the bottom.” He thought for a moment. “We should be fine down here until the storm passes, then we will surface to make our repairs. Stand down until further notice. That is all.” Hans replaced the mike and turned to the radar screen. It was covered with dark green blinking blotches. “How far from the ridge?” “Near as I can figure, it’s less than ten meters away, sir.” “Any knowledge of what’s between it and us, son?” “No, sir, nothing. I mean I don’t know what… The Captain cut him off. “Gotcha.” The loudspeaker blared. “Sir, Corporal Hines, Sir.” “Yes, Corporal, good job on the storage area.” “Thank you, sir. I think I have more good news.” “I could use some. What is it?” “We have managed to re-wire the electrical and it’s working properly again.” “Good job. Their conversation was interrupted by a prolonged screeching sound as the ship began tilting toward the stern. Hans yelled into the mike. “Brace for impact!”The bow of the sub was now pointing toward the surface. “The ridge, we’re going off. Hold onto something.” The men scrambled for their stations, as the boat ground and scraped its way off of the edge, now falling, dead in the water, stern first. The Captain fell backward and slammed into a doorway. Damn the luck. Maybe things weren’t going as well for the FatherLand as I had thought. Captain Kuhlmann could do nothing about either, so he held on for the inevitable. It didn’t take long. As the propeller section of the U-boat struck the rocky bottom, the vessel split in half, right where the leak in the storeroom had occurred. Air rushed out and the incoming water burst in, crushing everyone on board. Berlin would never hear from Captain Hans Gunter Kuhlmann and U-boat 166 again. God Save the Queen The air war over Europe had been going badly and London was getting her fair share of bombing raids. The chaps at Bryan Air Field were anxious to return to the battle in the skies, but they had been ordered here to the flatlands of Texas to learn how to fly through cloud cover from Lt. Colonel Joe Duckworth and his AT-6 Texan team. Each of the sixteen pilots would go up in pairs with the colonel in one jump seat and Captain Ralph O’Hair in the other. The cockpit over the front seat was blacked out, to prevent the pilot from seeing anything but the instrument panel and the rest of the interior of his AT-6 cockpit. Duck and O’Hair would handle the controls on take off, then turn the plane over to the blind pilots, at a safe altitude. That’s when the training began. “Read your altimeters gentlemen and keep your stick steady.” Duck barked his instructions over the microphone to both pilots. “If you feel yourself drifting left or right, check the level directly in front of you. Keep the plane in the same horizontal plane as the black line through the little round sphere. If you dip below the line, gently pull back on the stick. Don’t panic.” “Colonel, she’s a shakin a bit mate.” Lieutenant Peter Barksdale didn’t think much of the AT-6. “My lord, I think this piece of junk is gonna fall apart.” “Hold the chatter down Bark’, ‘less you have a legit question about the mission. This bird’ll get you to hell and back, if you can handle ‘er. There’s probably more shakin’ goin’ on in you, than in that little sweetheart you’re flyin’. Now…let’s try a turn, shall we. Gently edge her to the left when I say go. . . Ready…Go.” Each plane angled in the same direction. “Okay gentlemen, gently bring her back until the little plane in your sphere levels out. There, not bad. Change heading to two, six, zero.” Duck was now heading them into cloud cover that was directly ahead. “T-1 maintain altitude at seven thousand, Pete, bring her down to six. We will maintain this course through the cloud cover. Just keep her level and maintain your heading.” “Colonel, you’re right I’m getting the shakes mate. Flying like this is plum crazy.” “Easy does it Pete, you’re doin’ fine. You do your part and lil’ darlin’ here’ll do the res’.” The planes were now in the center of the approaching storm and the turbulence was bouncing them around pretty good. New Chapters:Training School ChapterJoe flies to GalvestonSinking of the rigRescue in Texas CityEntering the stormWeather Center vs Military To tell or Not to tell ClassifiedBombing in bad weather over Europe
I believe that was deliberate misspelling of storm.
I thoroughly enjoyed the drama portrayed in the accuracy of the vernacular of Louisiana Creole as well as the details you provided your description.
While I doubt that a hurricane can move a U-boat on the bottom at 80 meters, the scene certainly was dramatic.
My 98-year-old uncle and his 92-year-old wife were recently moved from Wisconsin to Bryan to an assisted living apartment. He served from 1941 to 1961 as a major in the Army Air Corps. I will pass on your book to him by email. I believe you will enjoy it.
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