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Redning og overlevelse

Redning og overlevelse


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Strandet: 9 fantastiske historier om overlevelse mod oddsene

Tidligere på ugen fandt fiskere nær Marshalløerne i det vestlige Stillehav 37-årige Jose Salvador Alvarenga på drift i en 23 fods glasfiberbåd. Alvarenga havde en fantastisk historie: Han var gået tabt til søs i 13 måneder, efter at han havde taget en dag med hajfiskeri nær den mexicanske kyst, hvor han bor, 5.500 miles væk. Nogle har udtrykt skepsis over for hans historie, men han ville have været langt fra den første til at udholde sådanne tilsyneladende uholdbare odds.

Her er ni af verdens mest berømte historier om overlevelse mod ugæstfrie forhold og dage, uger eller måneder uden hjælp.

1972: Den skotske mælkeproducent Dougal Robertson og hans familie sejlede rundt i verden i en skonnert, de købte med deres livsbesparelser, der sank 200 miles ud af Galapagos, da en bælte spækhuggere slog hul i skroget. De overlevede på havet i 38 dage, først i en oppustelig tømmerflåde med et jury-rigget sejl og derefter i en 10 fods jolle.

1972: En lille chartret flyvning med 45 mennesker, hovedsagelig et uruguayansk rugbyhold og dets medarbejdere, styrtede ned i en fjerntliggende del af Andesbjergene i Argentina. To af de overlevende, der havde hørt en radiorapport, der sagde, at søgningen efter dem var blevet opgivet, satte sig for at finde hjælp. Deres rejse over bjergene tog 10 dage. Da de fandt hjælp, havde de andre 14 overlevende ventet på redning i 72 dage. De overlevende levede af resterne af dem, der døde i styrtet og en efterfølgende lavine.

1982: Den amerikanske opfinder og skibsbygger Steven Callahan sejlede med succes sin hjemmelavede sloop fra Rhode Island til Storbritannien. På sin rejse tilbage slog noget hul i hans skib under en storm - han formoder, at det kan have været en hval - og han slap ind i en lille oppustelig redningsflåde. Han drev i 76 dage, før han blev hentet af fiskere nær Guadeloupe.


Efterspil og Moby Dick

Alle dem, der blev reddet til søs, blev ført til Valparaíso, Chile, hvor de blev genforenet. Efter at have fået at vide om mændene på Ducie, det australske skib Surry blev sendt til øen. Ved at finde ingen der, den Surry satte kursen mod Henderson Island, og den 9. april 1821 reddede den de resterende overlevende. Efter at have vendt tilbage til Nantucket skrev Chase Fortælling om det mest ekstraordinære og foruroligende skibbrud af hvalskibet Essex (1821 genudgivet under forskellige titler). Derudover Thomas Nickerson, en kabinedreng på Essex, skrev senere sin beretning om forliset og redningen, men notesbogen gik tabt og udkom først i 1984. Chases arbejde inspirerede Herman Melvilles Moby Dick (1851). Andre bøger og senere film var også baseret på det dømte hvalskib.



Attack Rescue Survive – Af Custom Knifemaker Alex Shunnarah

Alex Shunnarah er ikke fremmed for knivindustrien. Han valgte knivfremstilling som karriere som 14 -årig og har aldrig set tilbage siden. Faktisk ser han altid frem til nye og innovative produkter.

Dog Tag Knife Survival Kit

Dog Tag Knife Survival Kit

Tag for eksempel hans 440C hundemærkekniv – dette er en unik skabelse. Den har en spejlpoleret finish til brug som nødspejl. Han har to varianter: den enkle tag med støbt surroundskede og en med en større støbt kappe med indvendig opbevaring. Survival kit -versionen leveres med en flint og kompas indeni med plads til tinder. Vi fører overlevelsessættet i sort og i jægerorange version. Disse er virkelig gode at have “ lige i tilfælde. ”

Altoid dåse kniv

Altoid dåse kniv

Tin dåsekniven er et andet fantastisk design af Shunnarah. Denne lille kniv er omtrent den rigtige størrelse til en halskniv, men er lavet til at passe ind i en Altoid dåse eller overlevelse dåse af lignende størrelse. Så du kan indsætte dette lige i dit eget hjemmelavede kit.

Vend skaftmappe

Den originale version af denne kniv er i øjeblikket udsolgt, men Alex arbejder på at få en ny version (billedet), som vi kan tilbyde til en bedre pris! Vi er super begejstrede for dette og glæder os til at se den nye. Tjek prototype billederne ovenfor!

Alex Shunnarah gør et fantastisk stykke arbejde! Vi mødes med ham på Blade Show 2018 for at få mere indsigt i fremtidige projekter, følg med …


Inde i kystvagtens mest ekstreme redning

Det var 02:52 den 23. marts, påskemorgen, da Coast Guard Station Kodiak tog nødopkaldet fra et punkt næsten 800 miles vest, i Alaskas frigide Beringhav.

"Roger. God kopi på position. Anmodning om at kende nummer ombord, over."

Efter en statisk fyldt pause kom svaret højt og tydeligt: ​​"Antal personer: 47."

Kaptajn Peter Jacobsen var i det overfyldte styrehus på 189 fod. fiskerfartøj. Da trawlerens nødalarm først lød cirka en time før, faldt besætningsmedlemmer ned under dækkene for at se vand stige hurtigt i skibets agterkamre. De havde trukket en pumpe ud, men indsatsen så snart forgæves ud. Nu foretog Jacobsen, 65, en veterankaptajn, der havde fisket i Beringhavet i 23 år, opkald til sit skibs søsterskibe og gentog koordinaterne for Rangers position 120 miles vest for Aleutian Island -havnen i Dutch Harbor.

To hundrede og tredive miles mod nord var piloten Steve Bonn midt i en Xbox-duel sent om natten, da telefonen ringede i kystvagtens lille forpost på St. Paul Island. Bonn, 39, havde tjent som Army Blackhawk -pilot, inden han kom til kystvagten for otte år siden. Han var nu fire dage inde i et to-ugers skift på den isolerede base, hvor grupper af redningsfolk står klar til nødsituationer, der involverer landets største og mdashand mest fareprægerede og mdashfiskeflåde. Bonn skyndte sig til kasernen for at vække sit besætning: co-pilot Brian McLaughlin, 30 flymekaniker Robert Debolt, 28 og redningssvømmer O'Brien Hollow, 33. Inden for få minutter havde de læsset ind i SUV'er, der hastede gennem 3 ft. sne driver til hangaren og brændte en 14.500 pund HH-60 Jayhawk-helikopter op.

Craig Lloyd, 46, kaptajn for kystvagtsskæreren Munro, var på patrulje nær iskanten syd for de golde Pribilof -øer, da det daglige opkald kom igennem. Han beordrede ingeniører til at skifte 378-ft. kutter fra sine standard dieselmotorer til Pratt & amp; Whitney FT4A -motorer, svarende til dem, der driver Boeing 707'er. Flere af de 160 besætningsmedlemmer om bord var kuglet vågne i deres køjer, da møllerne på 18.000 hk sparkede ind, og Munro begyndte at sprint mod det synkende skib med en hastighed på næsten 30 knob eller 35 mph.

David Hull kæmpede for at trække en knaldrød overlevelsesdragt over de sved, han havde sovet i minutter før. Den tykke "Gumby" jakkesæt i neopren, der ligner en pyjamas med fod med børn, har en lynlås foran, der skal danne en tæt forsegling i nakken for at holde kroppen tør. Men da Hull trådte ind i de overdrevne dragters floppende ben, følte han sine termosokker sive igennem. Indenfor var der allerede stående vand.

En 28-årig, der voksede op i forstæderne i Seattle, havde Hull tilbragt tre år som fiskebehandler på Alaska Ranger. Det såkaldte head-and-guts fartøj har en fabrik under dæk, hvor fangsten delvist er klargjort til salg, den er omtrent dobbelt så lang som den gennemsnitlige king-krabbe-båd, regionen er kendt for. Hull havde sovet på sit "stativ" i køjerummet, som han delte med tre fiskere, da et andet besætningsmedlem åbnede døren: "Tag jakkesæt på. Vi oversvømmer." Ligesom resten af ​​besætningen havde Hull meldt sig til en mønstring nær hans udpegede redningsflåde på skibets dæk. Nu cyklede de ængstelige mænd gennem 5 minutters opvarmningsskift i styrehuset, hvor de næsten ikke kunne genkende hinanden i de omfangsrige jakkesæt med hætte.

Udenfor var dækket glat af is, og bølger begyndte at komme over akterenden. Temperaturen var kun 12 F. Da Hull lænede sig mod styrehusets forrude og ventede på hans tur, blev Alaska Ranger mørk. Mærkeligt syntes det at skifte til omvendt. Så tog trawleren en pludselig, voldsom liste til styrbord. Hull skyndte sig efter en iskold skinne og holdt fast, mens besætningsmedlemmer klamrede sig til skinnen under ham stirrede rædslet op. ”Lad være, lad være,” hørte han nogen råbe. Hvis han mistede grebet, ville Hull slynge ned på dækket som en bowlingbold og banke mændene i havet.

Midt i kaoset udstedte kaptajnen ordren: Forlad skib. Mændene kæmpede for at skyde de isskorpede redningsflåder. De havde fået at vide, at de ville sænke stiger for at komme ombord på tømmerflåderne i en nødsituation. Men fordi Ranger bevæger sig bagud, skød tømmerflåderne mod buen i stedet for at flyde på plads nær siden af ​​fartøjet. Hull så dem glide væk. Så sprang han. Han svømmede efter den nærmeste tømmerflåde, trak sig ind og kiggede derefter ud af teltrummet. Rundt omkring spredte lysene, der var knyttet til hans venners overlevelsesdragter, sig i 32 F-vandet, blinkede ind og ud af syne, da mændene bobbet op og ned i 20-ft. svulmer.

Et af disse lys tilhørte Ryan Shuck, en blød talt 31-årig fra Spokane, Wash., Der havde tilsluttet sig besætningen på Alaska Ranger 10 måneder tidligere. Shuck havde været en af ​​de første til at hoppe. Han var sprunget fra midten af ​​skibet, og mdashand blev hurtigt suget under og ud over hans tømmerflåde. Nu var han længere modvind end nogen anden. Han stirrede tilbage i trawlerens retning og kunne se de bittesmå, ensomme fyrtårn flimre blandt bølgerne og, ved månens lys, skibets omrids bulende ud af havet. Shuck så på, da buen i Alaska Ranger vendte op mod himlen. Uhyggeligt flimrede lysene i styrehuset et kort øjeblik. Og så på få sekunder forsvandt skibet og sank hurtigt under bølgerne.

For at få den fulde redegørelse for denne redning, hent Kalee Thompsons seneste bog,Deadliest Sea: The Untold Story Behind the Greatest Rescue in Coast Guard History.

Alaska har den højeste sats af tabte fiskerfartøjer i ethvert kystvagtdistrikt & mdash338 både sænket fra 1994 til 2004. De fleste ulykker involverer fartøjer langt mindre end Alaska Ranger, og hændelser, hvor mere end fire eller fem mennesker evakuerer et synkende skib direkte i vandet (frem for i redningsflåder) er yderst usædvanlige.

Kystvagten inspicerer regelmæssigt fiskerfartøjer ud af den hollandske havn, den vidste, at Ranger skulle have nok overlevelsesdragter til alle ombord. Men selv med de tykke skumdragter lukket ordentligt, kan få overleve i Beringhavet i mere end 2 timer. Når Munro modtog rapporter om, at mænd havde forladt skibet, dets besætning mobiliserede til at håndtere massetab. Chief Chuck Weiss tog ansvaret for at omdanne messehallen til et triagecenter. Han orienterede flere mænd om, hvordan man behandler hypotermi, og de gik i gang med at samle snesevis af uldtæpper, der ville blive varmet i skibets industrielle tørretumblere og i ovne, sat til 200 F.

I mellemtiden blev kutterens HH-65 Dolphin-helikopter trukket ud af hangaren og rullet ind på et bikage-metalgitter på dækket. I vind på 35 km / t indsatte besætningen den hydrauliske sonde, der fastgør maskinen på 6000 pund tæt til platformen. Så ventede de. Dolphin er en mindre helikopter end Jayhawk og har en meget kortere rækkevidde. Kutteren skulle være inden for 80 miles fra katastrofestedet for at starte ellers, besætningen har muligvis ikke tid nok til at udføre deres redning og derefter vende tilbage til Munro før de brugte deres 1850 pund brændstof.

Det føltes for Shuck som om han havde været i vandet i timevis. Han kunne se en klynge på fire eller fem lys et par hundrede meter bag ham, men det var for langt at svømme, han var allerede udmattet. Shuck tænkte på at pakke jakkesættet ud. Måske hvis han bare lod sig synke til bunds, ville det være lettere. Det hele ville være overstået meget hurtigere. Han var så kold. Så så han et lys, der gloede ned gennem mørket og 30 sekunder senere hørte lyden af ​​propeller, der piskede gennem vinden.

Tre hundrede meter over havet kiggede Steve Bonn og co-pilot Brian McLaughlin gennem nattsynsbriller, da de scannede bølgerne nedenfor. Det var lige efter klokken 5 om morgenen, men i Alaska om vinteren er det stadig stummende mørkt. Endelig brød helikopteren ud af en snestorm, og der var det & mdasha light. Så to, tre. fem. Besætningen så, hvad der lignede en dårligt oplyst landingsbane, en række strober blinkede til og fra over næsten en kilometer lang havstrækning. Der var ingen tegn på Alaska Ranger.

Da de begav sig ud fra St. Paul, havde besætningen taget en afvandingspumpe med forventning om at finde skibet flydende og redningsbart. Nu slog flymekaniker Rob Debolt pumpen i havet. Scenen, der stod over for dem, var en katastrofe langt mere ekstrem end de & mdashor nogen, de kendte & mdashhad reagerede på tidligere. Alle fire mænd havde deltaget i kystvagtens prestigefyldte Advanced Helicopter Rescue School i Oregon, hvor de havde øvet vanskelige manøvrer i de enorme dønninger, der dannes, hvor Columbia -floden møder Stillehavet. Denne redning, ved at køre sne og vindstød, ville teste alle aspekter af deres træning.

McLaughlin var i stand til at radioere en besætningsmedlem i en af ​​redningsflåderne. De var alle okay. Jayhawk ville starte med mændene i vandet. Inden for få minutter svævede helikopteren over Shuck. Redningssvømmer O'Brien Hollow tilsluttede sin sele i et kabel, der blev kontrolleret af en hejse, der var hårdt monteret på Jayhawk og trådte derefter hen til den åbne dør. Han havde en Nomex tørdragt på, 7 millimeter neoprenhandsker og en neoprenhætte under hjelmen og mdashas samt en snorkel, tændt maske og finner. Da han sank ned i mørket på den tynde metallinie, så Hollow manden i vandet række ud og forsøgte at svømme mod ham. Hollow bad ham stoppe.

Så ramte han vandet i taljen og vinden førte ham lige til Shuck. Da Hollow tog fat i hans arm, siger Shuck, kunne han mærke, hvor stærk redningssvømmeren var, og han begyndte at slappe af. Hollow spurgte, om han kunne holde armene solide ved siderne. "Ja," sagde Shuck og nikkede. "Jeg kan gøre, hvad du vil, jeg skal gøre." Hollow sikrede Shuck i en sele og klippede ham derefter i sin egen krog. Han gav Debolt tommelfingeren op og mdash signalet om at hejse begge mænd op af vandet.

Inden for 15 sekunder kravlede Shuck mod bagsiden af ​​Jayhawk, og Bonn piloterede maskinen til det nærmeste lys. Igen gik Hollow ned på kablet, da Bonn manøvrerede helikopteren efter signaler fra Debolt, der i hvert øjeblik så redningssvømmeren, og McLaughlin, der råbte størrelsen og hyppigheden af ​​de indgående bølger. Derefter kom de til en gruppe på seks mænd, der havde knyttet arme i vandet.

Kystvagtens besætning besluttede at skifte fra selen, kaldet et Strop -system, til en redningskurv. Metalrummet betragtes generelt som en sikrere hejsmulighed for alle, der har vejrtrækningsbesvær. Selen trækker tæt om brystet, men der er ingen rem i kurven. Personen sidder ganske enkelt inde i den højvæggede kasse, indtil den trækkes ind i helikopteren. Kurven er også hurtigere til at løfte mennesker, der er samlet sammen, fordi redningssvømmeren forbliver i vandet og forbereder den næste mand til at blive hejst op.

Debolt sænkede igen Hollow i vandet, og redningssvømmeren hjalp mændene ind i kurven en efter en. Derefter gik de videre til et andet lys og et andet. På mindre end en time havde de et dusin mænd i overdimensionerede, vandtætte dragter stablet oven på hinanden i den overfyldte hytte. Helikopteren var ved kapacitet. McLaughlin havde været i radiokontakt med Rangers søsterskib, the Alaska Warrior. Trawleren var mindre end 10 miles væk fra kutteren Munro, som havde både brændstof og uddannet læge, var stadig 75 miles mod nord. Jayhawk var for stor til at lande på begge skibe. Med et dusin lys, der stadig blinker under, foretog McLaughlin som flychefen et hårdt opkald: De ville forsøge at spare tid ved at sænke deres overlevende til Warrior.

5:57 nåede Jayhawk fiskebåden. En besætningsmand blev læsset i redningskurven, da helikopteren svævede over skibet. Tre gange forsøgte mændene at sænke den overlevende, da Warrior slog og rullede voldsomt i bølgerne. Dækket var iset og fyldt med rigning. Portalen var en fare i det barske hav. Efter cirka 15 minutter foretog McLaughlin et andet hårdt opkald. Det var for farligt, de ville læsse af på Munro i stedet.

Inde i hans redningsflåde, David Hull sad i en cirkel med ni andre mænd, ryggen mod den oppustede væg. Flådens gulv var vådt, og Hull var kold. Hans hænder og fødder var følelsesløse, og han havde brugt den sidste time på at blive banket af at bryde bølger. Det føltes som en rutsjebane, han ikke kunne komme af. Men nogen havde formået at få fat i håndholdte radioer, før de opgav skibet. De vidste, at kystvagten havde deres placering, og at hjælpen var på vej.

De 12 mennesker inde i den anden redningsflåde var ikke så heldige. Begge tømmerflåder var af samme fabrikat, designet til 20 personer: De var ikke overbelastede. Men den anden tømmerflåde var fyldt med mindst en fod vand, og dens pumpe fungerede ikke. Flådens overlevelsespakke var blevet revet op, og nu var rationer, blusser og andre nødværktøjer gennemblødt. Ingen havde en radio. Og mange af de snes mennesker indeni var bukket under for søsyge. Blandt dem var Gwen Rains, en biolog fra Marshall, Ark., Der havde arbejdet i Alaska som fiskeriobservatør i de sidste to år. Fartøjer på størrelse med Alaska Ranger er påkrævet af føderal lov for at sejle med observatører, der har til opgave at sikre, at den virkelige fiskeri er i overensstemmelse med reglerne. Rains havde sluttet sig til besætningen bare et par dage tidligere. Hun havde dog arbejdet på andre skibe, der ejes af Ranger's moderselskab, og var blevet venner med trawlerens første styrmand, David Silveira, der normalt tjente som kaptajn på et andet fartøj. Bortset fra Silveira og hendes medobservatør, en nyuddannet college på sit første job i Alaska, kendte Rains ikke nogen på skibet.

Da Rains første gang klatrede ombord på Alaska Ranger, var hun blevet ramt af fartøjets tilstand. Det virkede mere nedslidt end andre skibe, hun havde arbejdet på. Beskidt. Hun bemærkede, at nogle af sælerne på de vandtætte døre så ud som om de var i dårlig form. Nu var Rains i en oversvømmet redningsflåde med 11 fremmede. Hendes ene ven var blevet tilbage på det synkende skib. Hun havde et GPS-aktiveret fyrtårn, der var leveret af hendes arbejdsgiver, men hun kunne ikke se, om det fungerede. Og hun var syg. Voldeligt så. Hun var ikke den eneste: De fleste i tømmerflåden kastede direkte op i det stående vand. Ovenfra kunne de høre summen fra en helikopter. Rains vidste, at redningsmænd først skulle hjælpe mændene i vandet, men hun håbede også, at de så hendes tømmerflåde.

Ved 6 -tiden, kystvagtsskæreren Munro havde rejst tæt nok til at lancere sin Dolphin -helikopter. Pilot Timothy Schmitz løftede af sted og satte kursen mod stedet. Han forventede Munro for også at fortsætte mod syd og forkorte returflyvningen. Men så fik kutteren besked om, at Jayhawk havde undladt at losse sine overlevende på Alaska Warrior. Nu er Munro skulle stoppe og modtage dem.

Da Dolphin ankom til stedet, vidste besætningen, at hvert minut, de brugte på at svæve, ville forbruge brændstof, de måske skulle bruge til returflyvningen. Redningssvømmer Abram Heller blev sænket i vandet. Disse fiskere var koldere end dem, der var blevet luftet af Jayhawk en time tidligere og især den fjerde mand, Heller nåede. Redningssvømmeren brugte mindst 10 minutter på at kæmpe for at få den grimme fisker til at falde til ro og slå sig ned i kurven, da flymekaniker Alfred Musgrave kiggede ned ovenfra. Endelig så det ud som om Heller signalerede at hejse kurven og mdash at manden sad sikkert inde. Men da kurven steg op mod delfinen, rejste fiskeren sig til skinnen. Snart hang hans ben ud af siden, hans krop stiv, da han holdt fast i kurvens øvre trekant. Han så forskrækket ud.

Med sin overlevende halvvejs ude af kurven kunne Musgrave ikke trække den helt inde i riggen for at losse. I stedet bomber han den ind så tæt på helikopteren som muligt og rækker ud efter sin kniv. Mandens overlevelsesdragt var fyldt med vand og tilføjede så meget som 100 kilo til sin vægt Musgrave planlagde at skære dragten for at lade vandet løbe ud. Men i det andet, at han vendte sig væk for at få fat i sin kniv, gled fiskeren. Da Musgrave vendte tilbage, hang manden ved albuerne fra den åbne dør.

Musgrave forsøgte desperat at hive ham op, men vægten var for meget. Inden få sekunder slap manden. "Han er væk, han er væk," hørte Schmitz Musgrave gentage gennem sit headset. Fyrre meter nede i vandet kunne Schmitz se fiskerens lys, stadig blinke. Et øjeblik troede han, at han så manden bevæge armene i bølgerne. "Han er okay, han flytter sig," sagde piloten. Men så gik en hjerteskærende virkelighed ind: "Ligegyldigt. Han er med forsiden nedad."

Da Jayhawk løb mod kutteren Munro, redningssvømmer Hollow behandlede de værst stillede fiskere med brystben gnider & mdasha noogie-lignende teknik til at holde hypotermiske patienter opmærksomme. I mellemtiden skiftede ingeniører kutteren tilbage til dens dieselmotorer og ændrede kurs og styrede fartøjet i vinden for at give helikopteren mere stabile betingelser for det, de vidste ville være en lang svæve. Det Munro's besætning havde oprettet en samlebånd for at få fiskerne ud af kurven, over dækket, ud af deres dragter og ned til messehallen herunder. De vidste, at jo længere tid det tog at få Jayhawk tømt, tanket op og tilbage til scenen, jo længere et dusin flere mænd ville være alene og langsomt fryse ihjel i det iskolde vand.

Shuck så sine medbesætningsmedlemmer forsvinde fra kanten af ​​helikopteren en efter en. Så var det hans tur. Da han lagde sig inde i den svajende metalkurv, nåede en besætningsmedlem op med en krog, kaldet en "dødmandspind" og grundstødte den farlige statiske ladning, der bygger sig op fra en helikopters rotorer. Derefter blev Shuck styrtet fra dækket. Hans jakkesæt blev fjernet, og hans vitale tegn blev snart kontrolleret, at han blev pakket ind i varme tæpper og drak varm cider. Hans temperatur ved ankomsten var 94 F. Han ville være en af ​​de heldige.

Udenfor havde Jayhawk sænket sin sidste overlevende og gasede op ved hjælp af en nødmetode kendt som HIFR (helikopter in-flight tankning). Besætningen svævede helikopteren over kutteren og brugte hejsekrogen til at oprette en brændstofslange, der omhyggeligt slang ud på dækket, og flyttede derefter ca. 30 fod fra skibets side for at tanke op. Helikopterholdet havde øvet den vanskelige manøvre under træning med besætningen på Munro bare dage før. Men den øvelse havde været i dagslys og i forholdsvis rolige forhold. Alligevel gik alt problemfrit Jayhawk var mere end to tredjedele af vejen til sin 6460 pund brændstofkapacitet, da opkaldet kom ind fra Dolphin. Den mindre helikopter manglede farligt brændstof, stadig 20 minutter fra kutteren med kun 36 minutter til "sprøjt". Jayhawk -besætningen afbrød HIFR for at komme af vejen og skyndte sig for at hente fem mænd mere, inklusive Heller, delfinens redningssvømmer, der var blevet tilbage for at få mere plads til overlevende.

David Hull havde været i hans tømmerflåde i næsten 3 timer. Han sad i en lav vandpøl. Bunden af ​​hans dragt var oversvømmet. Men hans største bekymring var vendt fra hans eget liv til sikkerheden for dem, der havde opholdt sig længst på det synkende skib, især manden kendt af besætningen som kaptajn Pete. Kaptajnen var den første officer, Hull havde arbejdet for, da han et par år før havde tilmeldt sig Rangers moderselskab, Fishing Company of Alaska. Han kunne lide og respekterede kaptajnen, en fredsskabende, ydmyg mand, der på trods af sin rang ofte ville give en hånd med gøremål eller tage ned til fabrikken for at hjælpe de nybagte med at pakke fisk. Hull vidste, at kaptajn Pete ville betragte det som sin pligt at blive med skibet til det sidste.

Endelig så mændene et skibs lys et par hundrede meter væk. Inden længe vil Alaska Warrior havde trukket op langs flåden. Mens Warriors besætning brugte sin kran til at løfte nogle mennesker fra vandet, kæmpede Hull for at svømme til skibet og trække sig op af en stige på styrbord side. Snes mennesker i den anden tømmerflåde blev fundet hurtigt efter. Det Alaska Warrior's besætning gav de overlevende tæpper og mikrobølgeovn til at holde i armhulerne. Og da de sad og varmede sig, begyndte besætningen at trække lig ud af vandet. Hull så dækhåndene bringe en ikke -reagerende mand ned til kabyssen og lægge ham ud på et bord. Hull så på, mens besætningen kontrollerede hans vitale tegn og begyndte HLR. Det var for sent. Kaptajn Pete var død.

Minutter senere blev en anden mand trukket fra bølgerne. Der var opkast i ansigtet. Hans øjne var glaserede. Hull begyndte HLR på fiskeren, som han genkendte som Byron Carrillo, en 36-årig fra Los Angeles-området, der kun havde været i besætningen i en uge. Det var bare dage siden, at Hull havde bemærket, at greenhorn, mens han var en hårdt arbejdende, havde problemer med at skelne forskellige fisketyper på forarbejdningsbordet. Hull havde trukket ham til side og givet ham nogle tips. Nu pumpede han vand ud af den stakkels fyr. Hull foretog 30 brystkompressioner, derefter mund til mund. Igen og igen. De andre mænd fortalte ham at stoppe, men Hull ville ikke give op. Endelig beordrede krigerens første styrmand ham til at afslutte det. Der var intet håb.

Tilbage ombord det Munro, Ryan Shuck havde hørt, at nogle mænd ikke havde klaret det, men han vidste ikke hvem. Ved hjælp af Coast Guard -fly blev Munro søgte metodisk i havet efter en besætningsmedlem, der stadig manglede. De løftede mænd ville forblive ombord på kutteren og kæmpe ud på hvilestolene i Munro's rummelige tv -værelser og indtil søgen blev afsluttet.

På mandag, Lloyd, den Munrokaptajn, samlede Alaska Ranger's besætning til at give dem nyheden. Fire lig blev fundet. Første styrmand David Silveira havde ikke reageret, hætten på hans overlevelsesdragt trak sig tilbage af hovedet, da han blev løftet op af vandet af Jayhawk på sin returrejse til redningsscenen. Det Alaska Warrior havde genoprettet ligene af overingeniør Daniel Cook, fiskebearbejder Byron Carrillo og kaptajn Pete Jacobsen. Satoshi Konno, fartøjets japanske fiskemester, der var ansvarlig for at lede trawleren til de bedste fiskepladser, manglede stadig. Den aften blev søgningen indstillet, det var umuligt, at manden kun kunne have varet mere end 40 timer i Beringhavet i kun sin overlevelsesdragt. Det var næsten utænkeligt, at så mange havde levet i selv 2 timer.

Inden for dage af forliset indkaldte Kystvagten til et Marine Board of Investigation. Sammen med et team af eksperter fra National Transportation Safety Board har de til opgave at afgøre, hvorfor Alaska Ranger grundlagt, hvorfor så mange mænd undlod at evakuere sikkert i redningsflåder, og hvordan en mand (senere identificeret som Carrillo) var faldet ud af redningskurven under en flyve- og mdashan -hændelse, der praktisk talt er uhørt blandt kystvagtpersonale. Der var også bekymring for, at en fejltælling under Jayhawks første afhentning forsinkede erkendelsen af, at Konno stadig var tabt til søs. Jayhawk -besætningen tællede 13 overlevende trukket op i deres første læs Munro talt 12 sænket ned.

"Der er altid ting, vi kunne have gjort bedre og gjort anderledes," sagde kaptajn Lloyd, en karriere ved Coast Guard. "Vi reddede 42 liv. Vi gjorde det ikke perfekt. Men vi træner til dette. Vi gjorde det uden at skade os selv og blive en del af problemet. I stedet var vi en del af løsningen."

Efter mere end en uges høringer i Dutch Harbor and Anchorage, Alaska, kom bestyrelsen sammen igen i et intetsigende hotelkonferencelokale nær Pike Place Market i downtown Seattle, Wash., Cirka 3 miles fra Fishing Company i Alaskas hjemmekontor. (Virksomheden reagerede ikke på gentagne forsøg på at kontakte den for denne historie.) Efter hinanden vidnede nuværende og tidligere medarbejdere & mdash inklusive Ryan Shuck og David Hull & mdash om faktorer, der kan have påvirket sikkerheden på Alaska Ranger. På trods af en formel "ingen tolerance" -politik over for stoffer og alkohol, blev der ofte drukket ombord, sagde flere besætningsmedlemmer. Der var tidspunkter, hvor ingeniørerne faldt i søvn på vagt. Og i månederne før ulykken vidnede besætningsmedlemmer, at Alaska Ranger havde regelmæssigt rejst gennem is, ofte ved højere hastigheder end de tidligere havde oplevet, på dette eller andre fartøjer. "Måske troede vi, at vores båd var en isbryder," sagde Hull om en fisketur nær iskanten, der fandt sted i februar 2008. "Det virkede ikke normalt for mig." Rystelsen var så voldsom, huskede han, det gjorde ondt i ørerne.

Kunne ispåvirkningen have kompromitteret skibets skrog og ført til oversvømmelser senere? Bidrog dårlig vedligeholdelse af skibets vandtætte døre til den hastighed, hvormed fartøjet gik ned? Udførte besætningen deres job ordentligt natten til katastrofen? Efterforskerne vil forsøge at besvare disse spørgsmål i løbet af de næste flere måneder, mens de analyserer snesevis af timers vidnesbyrd om Alaska Ranger's sidste rejse og bunker med dokumenter, der beskriver skibets omfattende renoverings- og vedligeholdelseshistorie. Men det bliver svært & mdashif ikke umuligt & mdashfor uden tvivl at afgøre, hvad der skete med trawleren. Det vigtigste bevis ligger nu under mere end 6000 fod hav på bunden af ​​Beringhavet.

I en diner i Seattle dagen efter hans vidnesbyrd rystede Ryan Shuck langsomt på hovedet, da han blev spurgt, om han troede, at han ville gå tilbage til fiskeri. En kammerat fra Ranger havde ringet med et andet job til ham. Shuck afviste det. Før ulykken, sagde han, var gutterne i hans besætning ikke så vilde med kystvagten. Nogle gange føltes det som om de bremsede tingene og foretog endeløse inspektioner. Så smilede Shuck. "Men når du har brug for dem, er du glad for at se dem." Ombord på Munro, Shuck var blevet inviteret op på pistoldækket og fik en rundvisning i maskinrummet, hvor han fik at vide, at Munro havde sat en hastighedsrekord på sin sprint mod Alaska Ranger. Kutterens besætning gav fiskerne tøj, herunder kystvagtshætter og jakker. Næsten hver mand gik fra skibet med et par sneakers, som et kystvagtsmedlem havde hostet op. De behandlede ham rigtig godt, sagde Shuck. De reddede hans liv.

Når redningsteams vendte tilbage til Kodiak, orienterede de hele flyvestationen om detaljerne i missionen, en operation, der i betragtning af både antallet af mennesker, der blev luftet og de forræderiske forhold, var uden fortilfælde i kystvagthistorien. Ingen af ​​mændene havde nogensinde stået over for noget lignende før og sandsynligvis aldrig igen. De var stolte over at være en del af en indsats, der havde reddet så mange liv, fortalte de deres andre kyster og følte sig heldige at have haft mulighed for at afsætte mange års træning til en sådan test.

"For os er det ret stort, en så stor sag som du kan forestille dig," reflekterede McLaughlin i dagene bagefter. "Jeg har været på taljer, da båden sank foran mig. Men der var fem mennesker, det var dagtimerne," sagde han. Det Alaska Ranger was something entirely different: "You get out there, you get on scene and you get into a hover and you look to your left, you look to your right, and you see strobe lights wherever you look. And you think, oh my God, where do I begin? Then you just pick a spot as quickly as you can and start getting people out of the water."

By the end of April, the winter fishing season was drawing to an end. The Coast Guard had been busy, though. The normal stuff: There was a medevac case for a man involved in an ATV accident in a remote village, and a couple of searches for overdue vessels. A sailor had come down with appendicitis on a freighter far out in the Bering Sea. In Dutch Harbor, most of the fishing fleet had returned to port for a break before the summer season got underway. Many crewmen traveled home to visit their families. Trawlers underwent routine maintenance and inspections. Before long, it would be time to go. And the ships that fish these northern waters would leave their harbors for another season.

Inside his life raft, David Hull sat in a circle with nine other men, their backs against the inflated wall. The raft's floor was wet, and Hull was cold. His hands and feet were numb, and he'd spent the past hour being pounded by breaking waves. It felt like a roller coaster he couldn't get off. But someone had managed to grab handheld radios before abandoning ship. They knew the Coast Guard had their location and that help was on the way.

The 12 people inside the second life raft were not as lucky. Both rafts were the same make, designed for 20 people: They weren't overloaded. But the second raft had filled with at least a foot of water and its pump wasn't working. The raft's survival pack had been ripped open, and now the rations, flares and other emergency tools were soaked. No one had a radio. And many of the dozen people inside had succumbed to seasickness. Among them was Gwen Rains, a biologist from Marshall, Ark., who had worked in Alaska as a fisheries observer for the past two years. Vessels the size of the Alaska Ranger are required by federal law to sail with observers, who are charged with ensuring real-world fishing practices are in line with regulations. Rains had joined the crew just a few days earlier. She had worked on other ships owned by the Ranger's parent company, though, and had become friends with the trawler's first mate, David Silveira, who normally served as captain on another vessel. Other than Silveira and her co-observer, a recent college graduate on his first Alaska job, Rains didn't know anyone on the ship.

When Rains first climbed aboard the Alaska Ranger, she'd been struck by the vessel's condition. It seemed more rundown than other ships she'd worked on. Dirtier. She noticed that some of the seals on the watertight doors looked like they were in poor shape. Now Rains was in a flooded life raft with 11 strangers. Her one friend had stayed behind on the sinking ship. She had a GPS-enabled beacon that had been provided by her employer, but she couldn't tell if it was working. And she was ill. Violently so. She wasn't the only one: Most of the people in the raft were vomiting straight into the standing water. From above, they could hear the buzz of a helicopter. Rains knew that rescuers had to help the men in the water first, but she hoped they saw her raft as well.

By 6 am, the coast guard cutter Munro had traveled close enough to launch its Dolphin helicopter. Pilot Timothy Schmitz lifted off and headed toward the scene. He expected the Munro to keep heading south as well, shortening the return flight. But then the cutter got word that the Jayhawk had failed to unload its survivors on the Alaska Warrior. Now the Munro would have to stop and receive them.

By the time the Dolphin arrived at the scene, its crew knew every minute they spent hovering would consume fuel they might need for the return flight. Rescue swimmer Abram Heller was lowered into the water. These fishermen were colder than those who had been airlifted by the Jayhawk an hour earlier&mdashespecially the fourth man Heller reached. The rescue swimmer spent at least 10 minutes struggling to get the burly fisherman to calm down and settle into the basket, as flight mechanic Alfred Musgrave peered down from above. Finally, it looked as though Heller was signaling to hoist the basket&mdashthat the man was seated safely inside. But as the basket rose toward the Dolphin, the fisherman raised himself to the rail. Soon, his legs were hanging out the side, his body stiff as he clung to the basket's upper triangle. He looked terrified.

With his survivor halfway out of the basket, Musgrave couldn't pull it entirely inside the rig to unload. Instead, he boomed it in as close to the helicopter as possible and reached for his knife. The man's survival suit had filled with water, adding as much as 100 pounds to his weight Musgrave planned to slice the suit to let the water drain out. But in the second that he turned away to grab his knife, the fisherman slipped. When Musgrave turned back, the man was hanging by his elbows from the open door.

Musgrave desperately tried to haul him up, but the weight was too much. Within seconds, the man let go. "He's gone, he's gone," Schmitz heard Musgrave repeat through his headset. Forty feet below in the water, Schmitz could see the fisherman's light, still blinking. For an instant, he thought he saw the man move his arms in the waves. "He's okay, he's moving," the pilot said. But then, a heart-wrenching reality set in: "Never mind. He's face down."

As the Jayhawk raced toward the cutter Munro, rescue swimmer Hollow treated the worst-off fishermen with sternum rubs&mdasha noogie-like technique for keeping hypothermic patients alert. Meanwhile, engineers switched the cutter back to its diesel engines and changed course, steering the vessel into the wind to provide the helicopter with more stable conditions for what they knew would be a lengthy hover. Det Munro's crew had set up an assembly line to get the fishermen out of the basket, across the deck, out of their suits, and down to the mess hall below. They knew that the longer it took to get the Jayhawk emptied, refueled and back to the scene, the longer a dozen more men would be alone, slowly freezing to death in the icy water.

Shuck watched his fellow crew members disappear from the edge of the helicopter one by one. Then it was his turn. As he huddled inside the swaying metal basket, a crewman reached up with a hook, called a "deadman's stick," and grounded the dangerous static charge that builds up from a helicopter's rotors. Then Shuck was rushed from the deck. His suit was stripped off and his vital signs checked soon he was wrapped in warm blankets and drinking hot cider. His temperature on arrival was 94 F. He would be one of the lucky ones.

Outside, the Jayhawk had lowered its last survivor, and was gassing up using an emergency method known as HIFR (helicopter in-flight refueling). Hovering the helicopter above the cutter, the crew used the hoist hook to draw up a fuel hose carefully snaked out on deck, then moved about 30 ft. off the side of the ship to refuel. The helicopter team had practiced the tricky maneuver during training with the crew of the Munro just days before. But that exercise had been in daylight and in relatively calm conditions. Still, everything was going smoothly the Jayhawk was more than two-thirds of the way to its 6460-pound fuel capacity when the call came in from the Dolphin. The smaller helicopter was dangerously short on fuel, still 20 minutes from the cutter with only 36 minutes to "splash." The Jayhawk crew cut the HIFR short to get out of its way and sped to pick up five more men&mdashincluding Heller, the Dolphin's rescue swimmer, who had stayed behind to make more room for survivors.

David Hull had been in his raft for nearly 3 hours. He was sitting in a shallow puddle of freezing water. The bottom of his suit was flooded. But his main concern had turned from his own life to the safety of those who had stayed longest on the sinking ship&mdashespecially the man known to the crew as Captain Pete. The captain was the first officer Hull had worked for when he'd signed up with the Ranger's parent company, the Fishing Company of Alaska, a few years before. He liked and respected the captain, a peace-making, humble man who, despite his rank, would often lend a hand with chores, or head down to the factory to help the newbies pack fish. Hull knew that Captain Pete would consider it his duty to stay with the vessel until the very end.

Finally, the men saw a ship's light a couple of hundred yards away. Before long, the Alaska Warrior had pulled up alongside the raft. While the Warrior's crew used its crane to lift some people from the water, Hull struggled to swim to the vessel and pull himself up a ladder on the starboard side. The dozen people in the second raft were recovered soon after. Det Alaska Warrior's crew gave the survivors blankets and microwaved potatoes to hold in their armpits. And then, as they sat warming themselves, the crew started pulling bodies out of the water. Hull saw the deckhands bring an unresponsive man down to the galley and lay him out on a table. Hull watched as the crew checked his vital signs and began CPR. It was too late. Captain Pete was dead.

Minutes later, another man was pulled from the waves. There was vomit on his face. His eyes were glazed over. Hull began CPR on the fisherman, whom he recognized as Byron Carrillo, a 36-year-old from the Los Angeles area who had only been on the crew for a week. It was just days ago that Hull had noticed that the greenhorn, while a hard worker, was having trouble distinguishing different types of fish on the processing table. Hull had pulled him aside, given him some pointers. Now he was pumping water out of the poor guy's body. Hull did 30 chest compressions, then mouth to mouth. Igen og igen. The other men were telling him to stop, but Hull didn't want to give up. Finally, the Warrior's first mate ordered him to end it. There was no hope.

Back onboard det Munro, Ryan Shuck had heard that some men hadn't made it&mdashbut he didn't know who. With the help of Coast Guard aircraft, the Munro was methodically searching the ocean for one crewman who was still missing. The airlifted men would remain onboard the cutter&mdashcamped out on the recliners in the Munro's spacious TV rooms&mdashuntil the search was concluded.

On Monday, Lloyd, the Munro's captain, gathered the Alaska Ranger's crew to give them the news. Four bodies had been recovered. First Mate David Silveira had been unresponsive, the hood of his survival suit pulled back off his head, when he was lifted from the water by the Jayhawk on its return trip to the rescue scene. Det Alaska Warrior had recovered the bodies of chief engineer Daniel Cook, fish processor Byron Carrillo and Capt. Pete Jacobsen. Satoshi Konno, the vessel's Japanese fishmaster, who was responsible for directing the trawler to the best fishing grounds, was still missing. That evening, the search was suspended it was impossible that the man could have lasted more than 40 hours in the Bering Sea in only his survival suit. It was almost inconceivable that so many had lived for even 2 hours.

Within days of the sinking, the Coast Guard convened a Marine Board of Investigation. Together with a team of experts from the National Transportation Safety Board, they are charged with determining why the Alaska Ranger foundered, why so many men failed to evacuate safely into life rafts, and how one man (later identified as Carrillo) had fallen out of the rescue basket during an airlift&mdashan incident that's virtually unheard of among Coast Guard personnel. There was also concern that a miscount during the Jayhawk's first pickup delayed the realization that Konno was still lost at sea. The Jayhawk crew counted 13 survivors pulled up in their first load the Munro counted 12 lowered down.

"There's always things we could have done better and done differently," Capt. Lloyd, a career Coast Guard man, said. "We saved 42 lives. We didn't do it perfectly. But we train for this. We did it without hurting ourselves and becoming part of the problem. Instead, we were part of the solution."

After more than a week of hearings in Dutch Harbor and Anchorage, Alaska, the board reconvened in a bland hotel conference room near Pike Place Market in downtown Seattle, Wash., about 2 miles from the Fishing Company of Alaska's home office. (The company did not respond to repeated attempts to contact it for this story.) One after another, current and former employees&mdashincluding Ryan Shuck and David Hull&mdashtestified about factors that may have affected safety on the Alaska Ranger. Despite a formal "no tolerance" policy toward drugs and alcohol, there was often drinking onboard, several crewmen said. There were times when the engineers fell asleep on watch. And in the months before the accident, crew members testified, the Alaska Ranger had regularly traveled through ice, often at higher speeds than they'd experienced in the past, on this or other vessels. "Maybe we thought our boat was an icebreaker," Hull said of a fishing trip near the ice edge that took place in February 2008. "It didn't seem normal to me." The shaking was so violent, he recalled, it hurt his ears.

Could ice impact have compromised the ship's hull, leading to flooding later? Did poor maintenance of the ship's watertight doors contribute to the speed with which the vessel went down? Did the crew perform their jobs properly on the night of the disaster? The investigators will attempt to answer those questions over the next several months as they analyze dozens of hours of testimony about the Alaska Ranger's last voyage and piles of documents detailing the ship's extensive renovation and maintenance history. But it will be difficult&mdashif not impossible&mdashto determine beyond a doubt what happened to the trawler. After all, the most important piece of evidence now lies below more than 6000 ft. of ocean, on the floor of the Bering Sea.

In a Seattle diner on the day after his testimony, Ryan Shuck slowly shook his head when asked if he thought he would go back to fishing. A buddy from the Ranger had called with another job for him. Shuck turned it down. Before the accident, he said, the guys on his crew weren't so crazy about the Coast Guard. It sometimes felt as if they were slowing things down, doing endless inspections. Then Shuck smiled. "But when you need them, you're happy to see them." Onboard the Munro, Shuck had been invited up on the gun deck and given a tour of the engine room, where he was told that the Munro had set a speed record on its sprint toward the Alaska Ranger. The cutter's crew gave the fishermen clothes, including Coast Guard caps and jackets. Almost every man walked off the ship with a pair of sneakers that a Coast Guard member had coughed up. They treated him real well, Shuck said. They saved his life.

Når rescue teams returned to Kodiak, they briefed the entire air station on the details of the mission, an operation that, considering both the number of people airlifted and the treacherous conditions, was unprecedented in Coast Guard history. None of the men had ever faced anything like it before and likely never would again. They were proud to be part of an effort that had saved so many lives, they told their fellow Coasties, and felt lucky to have had the opportunity to put years of training to such a test.

"For us this is pretty huge, about as big a case as you can imagine," McLaughlin reflected in the days afterward. "I've been on hoists when the boat sank in front of me. But there were five people, it was daytime," he said. Det Alaska Ranger was something entirely different: "You get out there, you get on scene and you get into a hover and you look to your left, you look to your right, and you see strobe lights wherever you look. And you think, oh my God, where do I begin? Then you just pick a spot as quickly as you can and start getting people out of the water."

By the end of April, the winter fishing season was drawing to an end. The Coast Guard had been busy, though. The normal stuff: There was a medevac case for a man involved in an ATV accident in a remote village, and a couple of searches for overdue vessels. A sailor had come down with appendicitis on a freighter far out in the Bering Sea. In Dutch Harbor, most of the fishing fleet had returned to port for a break before the summer season got underway. Many crewmen traveled home to visit their families. Trawlers underwent routine maintenance and inspections. Before long, it would be time to go. And the ships that fish these northern waters would leave their harbors for another season.


Desperate expedition

After some deliberation, a group of the fittest and most able men were picked to strike out and search for help. They were given the best remaining food and the warmest clothes, and then set out on their journey.

To the west, on the Chile side of the mountains, there lay a peak so high that it seemed impassable for men without any proper mountain equipment, and the men headed east towards Argentina. There they found the plane’s tail, but nothing of any use.

Despondent, they returned to their huddled friends at the crash site, and told them that the great mountain to the west would have to be conquered if they were going to survive.

The main problem with that was the nights. The mountain was too big to scale in a day and outside the plane wreckage the bitter cold after sundown would kill any exposed man.

The only thing that the exhausted and malnourished men could do was build makeshift sleeping bags and send three rugby players, Roberto Canessa, Nando Parrado, and “Tintin” Vintinzin, out into the unknown.

Later the three men would describe their first night in the sleeping bags as the worst of their life, as death from exposure seemed a real possibility.

The peak that the three men climbed. The Crash Site Memorial in the foreground was created after the survivors’ rescue.


Rescue and Survival - HISTORY

The idea of establishing a specialized and elite force for the rescue of downed aircrews grew out of three interlocked circumstances just before the Second World War: (1) a deep‑seated European belief in the sanctity of life, (2) the high expense of training replacement aircrews for those lost in combat, and (3) the greater effectiveness of aircrews who believed that there was a reasonable expectation of surviving a bailout or crashlanding.

These factors led the German Luftwaffe in 1935 to establish a sea‑ based unit, eventually being named the Seenotdienst (air‑sea rescue service) under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Konrad Glotz at Kiel for the sole purpose of recovering aircrews in the ocean. By 1939 the Luftwaffe had expanded this rescue force by adding Heinkel‑59 float aircraft specifically modified for this mission.

The Germans also pioneered the development of equipment and techniques during the years before 1940s. Its Heinkels were equipped with medical supplies, respirators, electrically heated sleeping bags, a floor hatch with a collapsible ladder, and a hoist to lifted injured aircrew members. The exteriors were painted white and sported a red cross to distinguish them from combat aircraft. They also introduced unmanned large buoy‑type floats, outfitting them with all manner of equipment that could be used by downed flyers of all nations.

Each Luftwaffe aircraft, in addition, contained inflatable dinghies, survival equipment, and green dye which could be released in the ocean to aid in spotting survivors. By the time of the Battle of Britain in 1940, there­fore, the Germans had in place for the English Channel and the North Atlantic a rescue system in which a downed aircrew member had a reasonable chance of survival.

The British efforts early in the war were haphazard. The (RAF) relied on its coastal defense force for the rescue of crewmen, although by March 1940 a communication system was established to give priority to distress signals. With the heavy attrition in men and materiel in July 1940 wrought by the Battle of Britain, Air Vice Marshal Keith R. Park, commanding No. 11 Group of Fighter Command, acquired 12 Lysander patrol aircraft and the services of seacraft to search and recover downed airmen.

RAF Air Sea Rescue Launch.

The next month the British formalized this arrangement by forming a Directorate of Air‑Sea Rescue at the Air Ministry to coordinate rescue efforts. In August 1941, executive control of all rescue operations were vested in the commander of Coastal Command. From this beginning, rescue operations became increasingly efficient throughout the remainder of World War II, at least for airmen lost in areas other than those held by the enemy.

Like its allies, the United States entered the war without any organized air‑sea rescue capability. As casualties from the bombing campaign became to mount, however, General H.H. Arnold, the Commanding General of the Army Air Forces made rescue a priority. In September 1942, the British and American forces agreed to cooperate and coordinate rescue operations. Although the British dominated the rescue program in the European Theater of Operations (ETO), the United States assisted and made special efforts to properly equip aircrews and train them for survival in a crash or bailout. It also employed seaplanes for search and rescue over water, although its short 800‑mile radius of action limited its viability.

51st Rescue Squadron SB-17s at Narsarsuaq Air Base, Greenland, in the 1950s.

Later, other aircraft, such as modified bombers were used for these operations as well. For instance, the United States modified some of its B‑17s to carry mahogany‑laminated, plywood boats under its fuselage which could be dropped to airman in the water. The boat was stocked with food, water, clothing, other supplies, and two small motors to allow the airmen to travel home. This B‑17 was christened the SB‑17, the first American aircraft modified and used specifically for rescue. Its first operational mission took place in April 1945, just as the war in Europe was about to end.

The success of air‑sea rescue operations in the ETO was sufficient to elicit excited response from most airmen. A total of 1,972 American airmen were saved in the water around Britain through March 1945. The Eighth Air Force’s rescue efforts saw only a 28 percent save rate in 1942, compared to a 43 percent rate by April 1943. Indeed, by the end of the war allied combat aircrews from all theaters could reasonably expect to be picked up if shot down.


Spotlight to shine on decades-old daring rescue at sea

This may be the most amazing rescue of Americans at sea you've never heard of. So much went wrong that day that four Coast Guardsmen didn't know if they would make it back to shore, CBS News' Mark Albert reports.

The story about how they did make it is awe-inspiring.

The motorized lifeboat used in the daring rescue may have seen its fame recede long ago, but the passion the boat invokes in admirers, like Dick Ryder, has not.

"It's really a treasure for me," Ryder said. "It is amazing. This boat is a tough cookie."

Ryder, and many others, helped save the decommissioned Coast Guard vessel, known by its call sign 36-500, which was the scene of a triumph that nearly became a tragedy.

"I listened to the rescue on the Coast Guard radio," Ryder said.

Film

On Feb. 18, 1952, the 500-foot, 10,000-ton tanker SS Pendleton -- its nine cargo tanks filled to the top with kerosene and heating oil -- had been ripped in two offshore.

The crew of 41 faced "imminent death."

"It was what we call here a nor'easter with waves that you can't even describe unless you see it," Mark Carron, the chairman of the Orleans Historical Society on Cape Cod, said about the day the ship sank.

A teletype sent after the storm called the waters "hazardous," the seas "mountainous," the darkness "extreme," the falling snow and winter gale "violent."

"Hellish storm," Carron said.

A quartet of "Coasties" -- none older than 24 -- was at the Coast Guard station on Cape Cod when the distress call came over the radio.

Coast Guardsman Bernie Webber got an order to take his crew into the storm.

"It was a suicide mission," said Casey Sherman, co-author of a book on the rescue called "The Finest Hours," which is now being made into a Disney movie.

"The Finest Hours" tells the story about how Webber and his crew set sail on a small Coast Guard lifeboat, the 36-500. The storm shattered the boat's windshield, sprayed the men with glass, tore out the compass and temporarily knocked out the motor.

With no direction, no help and little hope, they found the stern section of the Pendleton and most of the crew.

Webber then faced a fateful choice: "Does he take everybody home or try to?" Sherman asked. "Does he only try to rescue as many as the boat can fit? And he told his men, 'Boys, we're all gonna live tonight or we're all gonna die, but we're not going home without all these men.'"

Webber, the son of a Massachusetts minister, was praying for a miracle.

Despite the incredible conditions, Webber piloted the boat back to Chatham, Massachusetts, and sailed into history.

His crew saved 32 of the 41 people aboard the Pendleton.

"To his last dying day, he called it divine providence was what brought those men back," Sherman said.

From the top of the Coast Guard lighthouse in Chatham Harbor, Officer-in-Charge Corbin Ross still marvels at the moment more than 60 years after the daring display of courage and gumption in those waters.

Ross said that in the long history of the Coast Guard, "This is the greatest small-boat rescue the Coast Guard has seen, ever."

But the current of history would have all but erased the memory of the rescue if not for a freelance photographer who stumbled upon the abandoned carcass of the wooden boat in 1981.

"He came upon this boat sitting in the woods rotting away, and it was rotting away," Carron said.

He spotted the one recognizable clue the tides of time had not yet washed away -- the numbers 36-500.

He, among few others, knew it as the call sign of a miracle.

So, over the past 30 years, volunteers at the historical society have raised a quarter of a million dollars to restore it, putting the luster back in the legend.

Ryder, who pilots the famed 36-500, said that when he looks out of the windows, he thinks about how he is looking out of the same windows that those Coast Guardsmen did before they rescued the Pendleton.

And soon, millions will too when the Disney movie about the incredible tale docks in theaters in January.

Asked if he was trying to keep the story alive so people don't forget, Carron said he was "because if they forget, then all of what those heroes did and the family of the 32 that were saved is all for naught -- unless history can keep it alive."

The Orleans Historical Society has faced rough seas in fundraising and is running out of time. It is trying to get enough donations to take the lifeboat out of the water and preserve it in a museum.

The boat is already on the National Register of Historic Places, and the historical society hopes the movie will bring in more donations.

Donations to the Orleans Historical Society can be made on their website.


Se videoen: uheld og redning (Kan 2022).


Kommentarer:

  1. Voodookus

    Efter min mening er han forkert. Jeg er sikker. Skriv til mig i premierminister, tal.

  2. Yaman

    I den er der noget. Tak for hjælpen, hvordan kan jeg takke?

  3. Gyala

    Det er svært at sige.

  4. Graegleah

    I deleted the sentence

  5. Judy

    An appeal against this.

  6. Yago

    Jeg undskylder for at blande mig ... Jeg er opmærksom på denne situation. Man kan diskutere.



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