their flying suits to their bodies like icy armor. For the next seventeen hours of darkness, they huddled under the inflated dinghy, praying. Weaver promised to become a regular Sunday churchgoer if he ever again found himself in a place with churches. They’d slept just a few hours since the crash, yet none of them could nod off.
The following morning the weather broke and the skies were clear. They resumed their journey at daylight, heading east toward the coast. While veering a mile off course to avoid a crevasse, they heard the unmistakable sound of an airplane engine. The Canadians dove into the dinghy for their supplies. The flare gun proved useless—the firing mechanism had broken in the cold. The first marine signal was a dud. So was the second. But the third and last one worked, lighting the sky. The search plane wagged its wings in salute. The date was November 18, 1942, eight days after the crash. They’d been found.
The search pilot reported that the men had traveled a remarkable seventeen miles northeast on foot from their downed plane. He circled low over them. Soon the trio saw small parachutes open, drifting to earth like milkweed seeds. The crates beneath the chutes carried food, clothing, sleeping bags, snowshoes, one hundred feet of rope, and a bottle of Scotch.
Nash had never touched liquor, but just as he’d become a smoker, now he grabbed the Scotch. Half mad with thirst, he plucked out the cork and drank eight ounces—on an empty stomach and no sleep for days. Within minutes, Nash had sprawled onto his bottom. His eyes rolled around his head—Weaver thought they looked like marbles in a milk bottle. Down for the count, Nash slumped onto his side and passed out. His companions couldn’t wake him, so they dressed him in dry clothes and a parka, then stuffed him in a sleeping bag. Goodlet and Weaver put on dry clothes, too, then gorged on K rations from breakfast to dinner. After an hour of sleep, they woke up retching, having overwhelmed their shrunken stomachs. Nash woke and followed them down the binge-purge path.
The Canadians found a note among the supplies instructing them to tie themselves together and continue toward the water. The men’s northeasterly path was taking them toward a notch in Greenland’s coast known as the Anoretok Fjord.
Based on the search pilot’s report, a plan emerged for the U.S. Coast Guard cutter Northland to fight through the ice and meet the Canadians at the fjord. Before joining the rescue effort, the Northland had been transporting freight and bringing about eighty U.S. soldiers to the new airbase at Bluie East Two.
Why the Northland hadn’t been involved in the rescue effort sooner—not only for the Canadians, but also for McDowell’s and Monteverde’s lost American crews—was never explained. One possible reason was the ossified competition among military branches. Officials of the U.S. Army Air Forces were overseeing the C-53 and B-17 searches, and the service had recently established rescue stations along Greenland’s east coast. A successful rescue would prove the value of the stations and the skills of army men, with bragging rights as a bonus. The army had no incentive to hand the Coast Guard the mission, and the potential rewards, unless absolutely necessary.
As the Northland headed toward a rendezvous point with the Canadians, the pilot of the ship’s amphibious Grumman Duck took flight. Hoping to make sure the three frozen travelers were headed toward the correct fjord, Lieutenant John Pritchard scoured the ice cap. Pritchard spotted the men’s trail of snowshoe tracks, which he thought looked less than two days old. But despite one pass after another, he couldn’t find Goodlet, Nash, and Weaver.
Bound together, the Canadians used the airdropped snowshoes to quicken their pace. They stopped when it got dark, afraid of yawning crevasses, only to be drenched by sleet and rain. Rather than wallow in slush, they stood through the long
The following morning the weather broke and the skies were clear. They resumed their journey at daylight, heading east toward the coast. While veering a mile off course to avoid a crevasse, they heard the unmistakable sound of an airplane engine. The Canadians dove into the dinghy for their supplies. The flare gun proved useless—the firing mechanism had broken in the cold. The first marine signal was a dud. So was the second. But the third and last one worked, lighting the sky. The search plane wagged its wings in salute. The date was November 18, 1942, eight days after the crash. They’d been found.
The search pilot reported that the men had traveled a remarkable seventeen miles northeast on foot from their downed plane. He circled low over them. Soon the trio saw small parachutes open, drifting to earth like milkweed seeds. The crates beneath the chutes carried food, clothing, sleeping bags, snowshoes, one hundred feet of rope, and a bottle of Scotch.
Nash had never touched liquor, but just as he’d become a smoker, now he grabbed the Scotch. Half mad with thirst, he plucked out the cork and drank eight ounces—on an empty stomach and no sleep for days. Within minutes, Nash had sprawled onto his bottom. His eyes rolled around his head—Weaver thought they looked like marbles in a milk bottle. Down for the count, Nash slumped onto his side and passed out. His companions couldn’t wake him, so they dressed him in dry clothes and a parka, then stuffed him in a sleeping bag. Goodlet and Weaver put on dry clothes, too, then gorged on K rations from breakfast to dinner. After an hour of sleep, they woke up retching, having overwhelmed their shrunken stomachs. Nash woke and followed them down the binge-purge path.
The Canadians found a note among the supplies instructing them to tie themselves together and continue toward the water. The men’s northeasterly path was taking them toward a notch in Greenland’s coast known as the Anoretok Fjord.
Based on the search pilot’s report, a plan emerged for the U.S. Coast Guard cutter Northland to fight through the ice and meet the Canadians at the fjord. Before joining the rescue effort, the Northland had been transporting freight and bringing about eighty U.S. soldiers to the new airbase at Bluie East Two.
Why the Northland hadn’t been involved in the rescue effort sooner—not only for the Canadians, but also for McDowell’s and Monteverde’s lost American crews—was never explained. One possible reason was the ossified competition among military branches. Officials of the U.S. Army Air Forces were overseeing the C-53 and B-17 searches, and the service had recently established rescue stations along Greenland’s east coast. A successful rescue would prove the value of the stations and the skills of army men, with bragging rights as a bonus. The army had no incentive to hand the Coast Guard the mission, and the potential rewards, unless absolutely necessary.
As the Northland headed toward a rendezvous point with the Canadians, the pilot of the ship’s amphibious Grumman Duck took flight. Hoping to make sure the three frozen travelers were headed toward the correct fjord, Lieutenant John Pritchard scoured the ice cap. Pritchard spotted the men’s trail of snowshoe tracks, which he thought looked less than two days old. But despite one pass after another, he couldn’t find Goodlet, Nash, and Weaver.
Bound together, the Canadians used the airdropped snowshoes to quicken their pace. They stopped when it got dark, afraid of yawning crevasses, only to be drenched by sleet and rain. Rather than wallow in slush, they stood through the long
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