Flight of the Forgotten. Mark A. Vance
what?” I recoiled.
“He’s saying something about a weapon of mass destruction capable of killing thousands of people at a time but that doesn’t destroy property in the process. He and one other from the crew happened upon the plans for the weapon as it was being loaded.”
“Who did it?” I interrupted, feeling the need for revenge rising inside me like a tidal wave.
“He wants you to know that that’s not what they’re all about. They’ve had plenty of time to adjust to the situation, and what they want from you is just to let their families know what really happened to them. He says that people don’t appreciate their freedom today like they should and that they need to be made aware of the sacrifices made for them out of love of country ... that a sacrifice made out of love of country is a sacred gift.” the medium said. “There’s also someone here named Jim. Does that make sense?” he asked.
I nodded yes. “Jimmy Stammer, the radio operator.”
“Well, he’s Jim now. They continue to grow and evolve on that side too and he’s Jim now.” the medium stated. “He’s saying that you’ll never be able to prove what really happened to them because all the records were “buried.” They’ll help you, though, if you want to try and let people know.”
The medium then paused again for a moment before continuing. “Jack wants to show me something about the airplane now. He’s dressed in one of those leather jackets that pilots always wear and is showing me an open area in the belly of the airplane. He says it’s where one of the timed explosives was placed and that it went off right behind him just seconds before they crashed. He says they were supposed to be lost at sea, but because he was circling, the timed explosives went off while they were still over land. He wants you to know that all the bodies were brought back primarily for the families and to deflect attention from the crash site. The crew considers the loch their final resting place.” the medium declared.
“Raymond is showing me now how he used to talk to you when you were a small child playing on the floor.” the medium continued as I sat speechless. It was something I had never told another living soul, and it came as quite a shock hearing it from a stranger I had just met.
Ultimately, the staff at Camp Chesterfield was so beneficial to our investigation that when I began to ask pointed questions about sabotage in the crash of “Army 5095,” the U.S. Government became concerned about a leak within its own ranks.
*
For some time the information I was given from spiritual sources led the scientific, documented side of the investigation. In time, however, the scientific side ended up confirming the spiritual information days or weeks later, as the chapters that follow will show. There really had been a cover-up. The government did refuse to release the documents in its possession. Some of those who assisted me in my search for information were threatened with the loss of their lives and careers.
*
This story is divided into three parts. Part I describes how I was called upon to tell it. Part II describes the war time experiences of the Jack B. Ketchum crew and the events leading up to their cold-blooded murder. Part III is a fiction-based ending and long-awaited judgment day for those accused of the crime.
In this public sharing of the story, occasionally a name has been changed to preserve the anonymity of someone who requested that I do so. There is also one area of Part II that can be thought of as partially fiction: the episodes involving Ed Hickey and the other O.S.S. operatives. I do not have documentation that these things happened. I do know, however, that they, or something very much like them, must have happened.
Mark A. Vance
Charlotte, North Carolina
Prologue
August, 1959, Washington, Indiana
I was three years old and totally immersed in pushing a toy wooden airplane across the floor of my grandparent’s living room at breakneck speed. Propelling the tiny craft along, I remember staring in fascination at its U.S. Air Force markings and watching the pilot’s head spin around and around as I made the wheels turn faster and faster. Nearby, several grown-ups were talking about someone they all called Buster, and the name caught my attention as I sped the toy airplane across the carpet. From what I could gather from their conversation, Buster was an uncle of mine who had died in an airplane crash and all the grown-ups were very sad that day as they talked about him. None of them seemed to know what had caused his airplane to crash.
As I continued pushing the toy airplane faster and faster, trying to make the pilot’s head spin that much faster in response, I remember hearing another voice that day too, a very different one. That very special voice spoke to me quite calmly and deliberately. The man behind it talked about the absolute necessity of being careful with all airplanes and the sad consequences if one ever came apart on me. I remember that he told me his name was Buster and that he was going to be with me all of my life.
Present Day
Thirty-five years later, I was flying a routine trip to the Chicago O’Hare Airport as a Boeing 737-300 captain, when my first officer mentioned he was planning a trip to England in the near future with his wife and kids. He said his wife was from England and that he went back there with her fairly often to visit her family.
On the one in a million chance that anything would come of it, I asked him if he had ever heard of a place called Norwich, England, telling him that an uncle of mine had been stationed near there during the war. He immediately replied that his father had also been stationed near there during the war at a place called Shipdham. The word went off like an alarm bell inside my head, as I quickly asked him what his father had done in the war.
“Oh, he was a B-24 pilot.” my first officer said casually.
“44th Bomb Group?” I asked immediately.
“Yes.” he replied.
“What squadron was he in?”
“65th I think.”
“There wasn’t a 65th. Could it have been the 66th?” I asked, eagerly.
“I don’t know, but I’ll call him when we get in and ask.” he offered.
“Well, just in case, here are a few names to ask him about.” I said, hopefully, jotting down several names of my Uncle Buster’s fellow crew members, beginning with the pilot, Lt. Jack Ketchum.
I’ll never forget how excited my first officer was a short time later to report that his father not only knew Jack Ketchum and the others, but under that one in a million chance had even been billeted with them in England. Was it a coincidence that the two of us would fly together decades later and happen to discuss it? Was it a coincidence that his father didn’t know the Jack Ketchum crew had all been lost? Not likely. I knew that Buster was stirring things up again, and it was up to me to find out why. As a professional pilot, I knew there was always an explanation for why an airplane went down. My lost uncle was back, coaxing me ever so gently to find and reveal the truth.
Part I: The Calling and the Quest
Chapter One: Second Generation Airman
May 22, 1962, 13:13 Hrs. Administration Building, Randolph Air Force Base, United States Air Force, San Antonio, Texas
“Sir, there’s a Captain D’angelo here to see you.” the lieutenant proclaimed. “He says it won’t take but a minute.”
“Yeah, okay. Send him in.” the base commander grunted, setting down the report he had been reading and eyeing the door in front of him. Seconds later, Captain Anthony D’angelo entered and offered a stiff salute.
“Good afternoon,