Our departure day was filled with intermittent rainfall, and in the evening we climbed aboard our aircraft and taxied out. Earl cleared our departure with the tower, poured the coal to those four big four-bladed propellers, and we climbed away.

Layers of scudding clouds blanketed the Pacific Ocean below, but soon we were in the clear cruising at 20,000 feet above the mass of whiteness below. Francis Casserly, our navigator, said we would reach Anderson Field about one o’clock in the morning. I could see some stars above and noticed that Francis was working his sextant in the forward navigation bubble to check our position. One of our primary navigation aids was the direction-finding radio, called the RDF, by which we could home on selected ground broadcast stations. The directional needle on the instrument panel would point toward the selected station and reflect a bearing for steering purposes. Using this aid on several stations, one could triangulate radio direction fixes and then calculate an estimated time of arrival.

I had used the RDF many times and knew we would have no difficulty reaching Anderson Field, so I relaxed, dreaming of home. About midnight, an hour out of Guam, I tried our RDF and noticed the needle was wandering aimlessly from side to side. I only heard static and thought we were probably too far from the station. Earl tried to reach Anderson Field but did not get a response, and Casserly was having some difficulty getting the three fixes he needed to determine our position. By 1:00 A.M., I was still unable to find the Guam radio station. Cass had no reliable star fix, and the tower had not responded to our repeated calls. Earl took us down to 1,000 feet below the clouds for a look around. We should have been able to see the lights from Anderson Field but only saw dark choppy waters and an occasional whitecap.

Our flight engineer reported that we had two more hours of fuel on board. Earl said we would make it and decided to lean the mixture way back and start a square search pattern. Earl and I then alternated on the controls, first steering west for five minutes, then north for another five minutes, then east for ten minutes, making right turns while flying a box pattern that gradually extended each leg of our flight. Meanwhile all hands were at the windows trying to see the lights at Anderson Field or anything. An hour passed, slowly. We were getting anxious wondering what it would be like to land at night in the Pacific. The B-29 was not known for its flotation ability.

We had to do something soon, so we climbed above the clouds again. Earl turned on the emergency frequency and began to broadcase a distress message. About twenty minutes later, a rather calm and pleasant voice called to say that they had our position and we should continue to circle undil advised. A few minutes later, a B-17 Air Sea rescue pilot radioed a course for us to steer and told us to look for a yellow flare. They had us on their radar and were above us about a mile ahead. There was the flare, a distant, flickering yellow light, slowly descending, suspended by a tiny parachute, swaying gently as it passed through the clouds trailing whie smoke. Then I saw the dark silhouette of the B-17 above the flare, and we swung in behind him, beginning the descent to Anderson Field.

We landed with about twenty minutes of fuel ramaining. In the morning, we had to endure the embarrassment of a Board of Inquiry regarding why we were lost. Our RDF had been malfunctioning, the winds aloft had blown us about one hundred miles off course, and Casserly had not been able to pinpoint his position because of clouds. I was so relieved to be on terra firma that the inquiry seemed trivial. Our navigator had to do some sweating though.