Aleutian adventure

It is the spring of 2022, and there is definitely something wrong with me. Apparently, the passage of time has erased past aviation “messes” I have found myself in, such as landing a seaplane in the middle of a storm in the high Arctic. So it looks like I, along with Alaska bush pilots Burke Mees and Mark Kepler, am going back to the Aleutian Archipelago, host to some of the worst flying weather on the planet.

The Aleutian Islands are a volcanic chain spanning 1,200 miles westward from the Alaska Peninsula to Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula. The chain is a breeding ground for storms, with cold air from Siberia colliding with the warm Japanese current, creating a series of low-pressure areas shooting eastward along the chain. The result is low ceilings, poor visibility, rain, and high winds. In the 1940s, Alaska’s Kodiak Bear newspaper ran an advice column, “What to Do in Case the Sun Shines.”

The Aleut people are the native inhabitants of this land. Prior to major contact from the outside, approximately 25,000 Aleuts lived on the chain, a number that was soon reduced by 90 percent, primarily because of newly introduced diseases and disruption of the traditional way of life.

In 1741, Vitus Bering made the first Western contact with the Aleutian archipelago, encountering sea otters and other fur-bearing animals. Russian fur traders expanded east along the chain and down the North American coast to San Francisco. Within a century, overhunting devastated sea otter populations, while Russian trading outposts established a lasting Western presence in the islands. In 1867, William Seward negotiated the purchase of Alaska from the Russians, known to most as “Seward’s Folly.” By the 1930s, the growing threat of war in the Pacific brought renewed focus on the territory—Alaska, and the Aleutian chain in particular, held potential to control the Pacific transportation routes. In 1935, U.S. Army Gen. Billy Mitchell told Congress, “I believe that in the future, whoever holds Alaska will hold the world.”

U.S. military defense of Alaska as of the late 1930s was virtually nonexistent. In 1940, the United States assigned Gen. Simon Buckner to build a defense system for Alaska and the Aleutians. With more than 600,000 square miles to defend and few resources, it was an impossible job. But then no one had yet reckoned with Buckner.

On our way

It’s early June. After weeks of preparation, we load up our Grumman G–21G Turbine Goose, N642, advance the throttles of the PT6 turboprops, and rumble down Runway 34 for a northwest departure. We plan to explore this World War II theater in the Aleutians by retracing the routes flown by our military forebearers some 80 years ago as they fought the Japanese.

Kepler spent 10 years building this airplane with me, and as a native Alaskan bush pilot with 10,000 hours, his skills are indispensable. I once asked Kepler if he hunted. He replied, “Of course, I have to feed my family.”

Mees has written the book on seaplane operations—literally—and is a regular contributor to Water Flying. For six years, flying Gooses for PenAir out of Dutch Harbor was, for Mees, an exercise in grace under pressure.

Our journey to Lake Hood in Anchorage moves along predictably, if you consider massive snow-capped peaks, glaciers, and stunning fjords ordinary fare. Northwest of Juneau, we pass over the remains of the World War II Funter Bay internment camp. Before the war, the indigenous Aleuts inhabited a few small villages in the Aleutian Islands. The villagers were removed and interned at six locations in southeast Alaska, where they endured the challenges of internment camp living for the duration of the war.

Gen. Buckner gets ready

In 1940, Buckner tackled the task of building something with virtually nothing. U.S. military resources were focused on Europe and the Pacific, with little left over for the Aleutians. Buckner began bullying his way through inter-service rivalries and roadblocks to get the job done.

Buckner drove himself relentlessly. When not focused on the war effort, he released stress by hunting bears or flying a borrowed airplane through the Alaska bush. During his first winter—spent in a tent—his orderly used a blowtorch each morning to thaw the ice in his outdoor bathtub. Buckner planned to use the Aleutians as stepping stones for ultimate victory over Japan. The defense strategy was to build a series of bases starting with Elmendorf in Anchorage and expanding westward to Adak. The first aircraft arriving in the Alaska theater included obsolete B–10 and B–18 bombers that nobody else wanted. Subsequently, 20 P–36 fighter aircraft were delivered in crates and required on-site assembly. In January 1942, 25 P–40s left Sacramento for Alaska; it took six weeks for them to arrive, and eight of them never made it. In addition to being outdated, none of these aircraft had been flown in the harsh conditions of the far north, resulting in extensive maintenance and downtime. Over time, newer aircraft, such as Boeing B–17s and Consolidated PBYs, arrived, but ground crews struggled to keep the airplanes flying.

On to the Aleutians

Our arrival at Lake Hood Seaplane base (PALH) causes quite a stir. N642 spent much of its life flying in Alaska for the Department of the Interior, and apparently the old guard Goose groupies have not forgotten. After a couple days swapping semi-truthful tales of derring-do with the locals, we slide out for our water takeoff.

I don’t really enjoy operating out of Lake Hood. In addition to the commercial airport, another dirt strip and several water lanes for seaplanes are all crammed into the same airspace. Pity the unsuspecting interloper who tries to fly here without local knowledge. Additionally, the turbine Goose can be a handful on water takeoff. It wants to turn hard left and requires lots of rudder trim, differential power, and standing on the right rudder to keep it straight. For an added degree of difficulty, the forward view is completely obscured by a wall of water flooding over the windscreen.

Carrying that mental baggage, I initiate the takeoff, whereupon the side window pops open—twice—giving me a good soaking. Coming up on the step, the windscreen clears, and I can see I am pointed for the hinterlands. After a series of over-corrections, we straighten out and lift off, leaving a water trail that looks like a torpedo evasion course. Later that night at the Katmai Lodge, I see a video of my takeoff is the star of the Grumman Goose social media site. Perhaps Simon Buckner summed up these situations best when he said, “To attract maximum attention, it’s hard to find anything more effective than a great big, juicy, expensive mistake.”

After a night at the Katmai Lodge, we are on our way, and with fair weather ahead, at least by Aleutian standards, we push on to Dutch Harbor. The next morning, we are greeted by low ceilings and drizzle. We eventually wander over to the local watering hole, The Norwegian Rat. With the forecast showing bad weather for the rest of the day, I order a beer. Burke says, “What are you doing? The weather in Alaska can change in a minute.” So, I cancel the libation, and sure enough, in a few hours, the weather will lift to do some flying.

Sipping my iced tea, I gaze out over the bay, imagining a very different scene some 80 years ago.

The Battle of Dutch Harbor

In the early dawn of June 3, 1942, a cluster of Japanese airplanes, led by 12 Mitsubishi A6M Zero fighters, attacked the town’s radio station and storage tanks. Although the Americans were anticipating an attack, there was no specific warning. Crews ran to their guns and returned fire. Over the next two days, the battle raged, with repeated airstrikes from Japanese carrier-based aircraft. Dutch Harbor had no runway because of the rough terrain, so American forces relied on ground-based guns; however, a flight of P–40s out of Cold Bay managed to shoot down one Zero fighter. After two days, the Japanese withdrew, ultimately establishing military bases at Kiska and Attu at the far western end of the Aleutian chain.

On our way to Adak

While in Dutch Harbor, we make a provisioning run to the famed Alaska Ship Supply, which stocks everything from foul-weather gear to giant cheesy balls, and even a few ship supplies. The weather finally lifts enough to make our run to Adak, and as we pick our way through the islands, I peer out the cockpit window at the Bering Sea just a few hundred feet below us. The seas are still too high to safely land our seaplane. Two hundred feet above us is a gray morass of condensate, known by pilots as an overcast layer. So, we are aviating along through this thin slice of flyable air, a feeling that is at once both exhilarating and unsettling. Despite low ceilings, we are treated to a visual buffet of cliff-rimmed bays adjoining green valleys carpeted by muskeg, with occasional glimpses of soaring volcanoes in the distance. Sea lions perch on rocky shelves and bands of wild horses roam the tundra. We are on a quest to find a relic of the epic World War II battle for the Aleutians.

On December 9, 1942, a Consolidated B–24 Liberator departed from Adak carrying, among others, Brig. Gen. William F. Lynd. The U.S. Air Force brass believed pilots were exaggerating the brutality of the Aleutian weather and sent Lynd on a fact-finding mission. After a bombing mission to Attu, the pilot found himself trapped in wall-to-wall fog, and with dwindling fuel reserves chose to crash-land the bomber on Atka Island. Lynd suffered a broken collarbone, but the general and crew were rescued the next day by a PBY. This incident ended the complaints from the stateside desk jockeys about the exaggerated Aleutian weather.

We soon spot the wreckage in a valley and swoop in for a closer inspection. The tight quarters of the canyon necessitate some sporty flying as we circle the site. Having satiated our curiosity—for now—we continue our flight of discovery to Adak. Later, after picking up Burke’s friends Ty and Daniel in Adak, we’ll return to the site, land the Goose in the bay, and conduct a “ground reconnaissance” of the fallen warplane.

After an uneventful landing in Adak, we roam empty streets lined with abandoned houses and vacant commercial buildings. This place could be a scene from an H.G. Wells science fiction tale where an entire community disappears for unknown reasons. But with the help of our host, a local Aleut named Ty Dushkin, we learn the real story.

Building the base at Adak

In early 1942, Adak was an island of icy volcanoes and marshy muskeg, populated by a thriving community of birds. Needing a forward air base to drive the enemy out of the western islands, the Army “invaded” Adak in August 1942. Within two weeks, the Seabees had drained the lagoon and built a runway, allowing the Air Corps to commence the first bombing run to Kiska. From that point on, bombers from Adak continuously targeted Japanese positions in Kiska and Attu. After the war, Adak was developed as a naval air station, housing more than 6,000 personnel and their families. After the military withdrew in the 1990s, the Aleut Corporation took over. Some 50 residents remain on the island, resisting nature’s efforts to return the land to its original state.

The final leg

While waiting for the weather, we explore Adak and meet the locals: Ty, the airport manager; Daniel, his assistant, from Germany; The Fuel Guy, a big, burly Samoan; and our favorite, Bernardo of Bernardo Liquors, a Mexican national.

Traveling with Burke demands restraint. Having spent much of his life here, he has developed a Zen-like calmness to all things Aleutian; there is no real schedule, as everything depends on the weather. I do my best to stifle my natural impatience, and finally, on the third day, Burke arises and asks if we want to go on to Kiska. With new friends Ty and Daniel, we pile in the Goose and head west to unexplored lands. After an hour, we spy some smoke just to the north of our path and swing over for further investigation. We circle the volcanic caldera, viewing plumes of smoke and ash rising through the scattered clouds. Later, Burke spots a lake, and having never willingly bypassed a water landing, down we go for some water work in the shadow of the volcano.

After a two-hour flight, we arrive over Kiska, a long, narrow island with dormant volcanoes, marshy valleys, and numerous bays. After some low-level reconnaissance, we splash down in Kiska Harbor near the derelict pier. Landing on the island requires a special permit, so we satisfy our curiosity while bobbing around the harbors, observing abandoned airplane parts and even the rusting hulk of a Japanese mini-sub.

The end of the Aleutian campaign

Having been thwarted by American forces at Dutch Harbor, on the dawn of June 7, 1942, the Japanese landed several thousand troops on Kiska and Attu. They quickly set up bases, including extensive harbor and coastal defenses, and over time nearly 7,000 troops landed here. In response, American forces conducted an ongoing air bombardment campaign targeting Japanese positions on Kiska and Attu. By May 1943, the Americans had retaken Attu in a brutal battle that left 2,351 dead and only 28 captured. To prevent prisoners from being taken, Japanese soldiers killed the wounded in their field hospital.

Anticipating another brutal battle, Buckner ordered the American forces to carpet bomb Japanese defenses at Kiska for two weeks, leading to an invasion of 34,000 troops on August 15, 1943. The landing force encountered no opposition—the Japanese had evacuated the island on July 28.

The Aleutian campaign was over. Involving about 500,000 troops from the United States, Canada, and Japan, the conflict cost numerous ships, aircraft, and around 10,000 lives. It was the only World War II campaign on North American soil and marked the United States’ first theaterwide victory over Japan. We owe those guys a lot.

Final thoughts

After playing in the waters surrounding Kiska, we power up the Pratt & Whitney turboprops, and with the normal water works, coax the Goose into the air. With the advantage of a modern seaplane, state-of-the-art avionics, and 24-hour weather forecasts, we’ve still only flown about half the time. The military pilots in 1942 had basic instruments, NDB navigation aids at best, and mostly flew pilotage. For those guys, war necessitated flying when and where it was required—weather be damned.

Warfare in the Aleutians persists, with all life battling a shared foe: the wicked weather.

Doug DeVries of Scottsdale, Arizona, has been flying for 43 years and accumulated 3,600 flight hours. He owns a DHC–2 Beaver, Scout, Stearman, Kodiak 100, and a T–34 (under restoration).