John Harry Romero II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Training Instructor “Sting 27”, September 10, 1971

“Captain Romero is an outstanding young officer who displays unlimited

potential. He has functioned in an outstanding manner as both a squadron

pilot and as an aircraft commander upgradee. Captain Romero is a highly Opinion of Endorsing Officer. “I highly remommend that he be promoted well ahead of his contemporaries.”

skilled and experienced pilot who continually displays excellent knowledge of

all phases of his job . . .He has demonstrated his ability and desire to assume

 increased responsibilities  and should be considered for promotion ahead

 of his contemporaries.” 
Born John Harry Romero, Jr. September 1, 1941, in Lafayette, Louisiana, he grew up a home boy  near the Mississippi. After attending University of Southwest Louisiana, Lafayette, he enrolled in the Air Force on December 11th, 1964, at the age of 23. Lanky, almost 6 feet tall, he was nevertheless agile and qualified for some of the best jets. He quickly distinguished himself above his fellow
               junior officers, and became an exceptional pilot.
                     By this time Romero had married his sweetheart,
               Carrie, and in the next few years they would have 2
               children together, Carolyn, and John III.
                   After finishing training in Texas, young Romero was
               quickly transferred to Hahn, Germany, as a part of the
               10th tactical fighter squadron. Various duties then
               came as Romero was being groomed for promotion.
               He eventually became the Forward Air Controller.
               After being transferred back to the States, Romero
               continued to express his desire to learn more about
               every aspect of aerial warfare. As a result of his
               interest and abilities, he occupied a number of
               positions while continuing to fly, and finally was
               made the second commander of a Phantom F-4 Wing.
                     On January 18, 1970, he finally got his chance to
               put his training and experience to work. He was
               transferred to Vietnam, to see front line tactical
               fighter combat, including ground support bombing
               missions and striking at targets far behind enemy
               lines. 


The honors came surprisingly quickly. For the first month flying achievements alone he was awarded the Air Medal. Soon even higher awards came. On April 1, he was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross, then on June 10, he was awarded yet another, with First Oak Leaf Cluster. He was then also named Top Gun in his Wing.
   “Captain Romero is fully qualified and capable of performing in a nuclear strike, conventional weapons delivery or Air defense role utilizing the F-4D weapons system under all weather conditions. Responsible for planning and executing these missions. Maintains an operational knowledge of peacetime/wartime plans and procedures, continually reviews assigned targets and accomplishes periodic testing on these subjects. Committed to global deployment for indefinite period with  minimum notice

Romero enjoys the celebration of their last flight in Vietnam. He is the one drinking the bottle of beer by the sign. Courtesy of John Romero III.
With such capabilities, he was viewed as an ideal training officer. Back to the United States in February 1971,  he was transferred to Homestead Air Force Base,  earmarked for tctical training in Phantoms for the 306th and then for the 307th. Romero’s record proceeded him wherever he went, and he was soon going to be groomed for Major.
   However, not long after his 30th birthday, on 21 September, 1971, he and Lt. Norm Northrup boarded a Phantom and flew out to sea. It was to be a short training maneuver, lasting only 20 minutes. While on radar and in a routine turn, the plane’s Selective Identification Feature faded. The tower controller contacted them and asked them to verify their position. Moments later, after merely a routine confirmation of  “Roger, I am in a port turn at this time,” the plane vanished.
   By 1971 the Bermuda Triangle was big news, and the Miami Herald newspaper recorded the fact that the planes vanished mysteriously in the “Devil’s Triangle.” The only deduction that could be made was that the plane mysteriously disappeared.
   Behind the scenes the family was greeted with little more illuminating information. By 27 September, it had become clear that Romero and Northrup would not be found. Colonel David Rippetoe, in the official condolence letter, summed up their efforts: “Extensive search efforts by aircraft and surface craft equipped with special sonar equipment has failed to locate evidence of any type, such as equipment or debris that could be identified with the aircraft your husband was aboard.”
   The disappearance of “Sting 27” remains one of mystery today. The accident report is highly edited, and a weird “discoloration” was seen in the water in the area where it vanished.
   John Romero was survived by his young wife and 3 children, who were then 6 and 2 respectively. Six weeks later Carrie gave birth to Joseph Romero, who also later served in the US army.
   I am indebted to both his widow, Carrie, and his son, John Harry Romero III, for the information on this page, which is taken from copies of his official records, copies of his awards, and pictures taken of him during his career, which the family generously offered to me. John Romero III has also followed in his father’s footsteps and is an active member of the US Army as a Cavalry Scout. Our communication was long before the present conflict, so wherever he is now he has the best wishes of this web site and I’m sure all those who regularly follow it.

Thomas Garner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Gunner on PBM, July 10, 1945

Tom Garner’s disappearance is perhaps the best place to introduce the

strange disappearance of his flight to the public. This is one of those

rarely known aircraft disappearances that predate Flight 19. For the

information on this flight I am grateful to his brother, Don Garner, who

has generously lent several copies of documents, telegrams, and official communiqués sent to the family by the Navy. 
This was started by Don’s innocent request to find where there might be a Navy report on this. For over 55 years this incident was publicly obscure. Now thanks to Don and the Navy it can be told here.
Banana River  Naval Air Station was the center for US Navy training in PBM Martin Mariners, huge aircraft designed for long overseas flights and patrols. They were a crucial aircraft for the Navy in the Pacific; the “eyes” of the fleet because they could scout 1,00o miles ahead. They were also crucial for Air-Sea rescue since they could land and takeoff from the ocean. Because they carried so much fuel, they were often called “flying gas tanks,” and a part of preflight inspection was to pat the men down to make sure none had cigarettes or matches.
   Although the war was over in Europe, it was still raging in the Pacific and would not be over for almost two months to come.
   Considering the role of the PBM,  the Atlantic and Bahamas were considered ideal areas for training. Thousands of training flights went  over this area, and only now,  slowly and tenuously, are we beginning to uncover how many have disappeared.
   The date was July 9, 1945. It took off from Banana River in the evening and flew southeast over the Bahamas. At 9:15 p.m. its routine position report was picked up, stating all was well and that they were near New Providence Island. It was due back at base at 2:15 a.m. the next morning. After it failed to arrive, the Navy searched 10 days and never found any sign of the plane or crew.  
A small rain squall was reported on the plane’s route. That was about it. Nothing more. That is nothing for a big Mariner, and it was considered average weather, with good visibility and ceiling. If the pilot wished, he could even fly around it.
   But a day after, the families were greeted by surprise and dismay.   

Glen Lorraine Winder, S1cThe crew of the PBM Mariner
`Lt. (jg) J.B. White
`Wendell Eugene LaVoy,  Ens.
`Elliot Wesley Lewis, Ens.
`Eugene Sailey Boyer, S1c
`Bernard Zlotnick, S1c
`Thomas Cornell Oliver, AOM3c
`James Edward Eisley, AMM3c
`homas Arthur Garner AMM3c
`John Lewis Hurt, Sr. S1c
`Stephen Worobeck, S1c

  


The next telegram, dated 23 July, would bear the usual regrets. “Exhaustive search proves futile in case of your son. He chose a part in the defense of his country requiring courage, stamina, and skill which he has demonstrated in no small degree. My sincere sympathy goes out to you at this time. . . .Commanding Officer NAS Banana River.”
  What happened will always remain a mystery. But there are a few pieces of the puzzle that lead to some firm conclusions. First, one thing stands out—it was lost suddenly— the Mariner could land on water if an emergency arose; there would also be enough time to send an SOS. It was last heard from in the vicinity of New Providence (the island on which is situated the capitol of the Bahamas, Nassau) which is well traveled and should have produced some form of debris. It seems  a typical crash would have left some debris, some shred to wash up on a nearby island.
   If it had not been for wartime secrecy, the public would have been surprised by this and yet another  disappearance—a Privateer vanished over the Bahamas on July 18, 1945, during the search operations. No clue has been found for both incidents. The incident of the Privateer has been tersely reported before, such as by John Wallace Spencer, but it has never been placed into context until now.   

When I asked Don for information on a Bio, he hesitated a bit. “A young fellow joining the Navy at eighteen hasn’t made a lot of tracks that are interesting to hear about, unless he is some kind of sports star . . .which Tom wasn’t. Also, at age nineteen, he didn’t survive long enough to have much of a Navy career.” He promised to compile something and from this I could pick through what interested me. What he sent me, however, I think was rather well done. So in Don’s own words remembering his brother, I place it here verbatim.
In the Southwest, the “Roaring Twenties” were not good times for everyone. Although across Oklahoma and Texas oil was a booming business with fortunes pouring into the pockets of those who were in the right places, for most of the families of the people working in oil production, the wage earners, times were still hard. Typically they continued to endure with low wages, long working hours, and meager living conditions. Many lived in company houses, small four-room box-framed structures with electric lights, but with no other modern facilities, built on company property in the heart of the cluttered “oil-fields.” It was into such an environment, in a company house in 1926, that Thomas Arthur Garner was born, the fourth child in what was to be a family with six children.
 
Tom’s father worked for a rapidly growing oil-pipeline company that often relocated its employees, and at that time the company was constructing line and pumping facilities from Texas to the Great Lakes. When Tom was three years old his family was relocated from Oklahoma to a very rural pumping station location near Virginia, Illinois. That was only the first of several relocations for the family, and of several school changes for the children. For grade school, Tom started in Heyworth, Illinois and finished at Hawthorne School in Mattoon, Illinois. He started high school at Mattoon and graduated in 1943 from the high school of Vandalia, Illinois.Vandalia was a small town with a few family-owned mom and pop stores and almost no industry. Opportunities for employment there were flat at best. After his graduation from high school, Tom spent the summer taking a hands-on course in machineshop, learning to work with metal lathes and other metalworking shop tools. Then later he found a section gang job nearby with the Pennsylvania Railroad. It was hard work for a young man who was only eighteen.
   At the time, although World War II was winding down, the military draft was still very much in effect and Tom was at the age when his “Greetings” could have shown up with the next mail. So preferring the Navy, Tom decided to enlist. After boot camp he was given training as an Aviation Machinist Mate at the Whidbey Island Naval Base near Seattle. As a teenager, Tom had been a natural sharpshooter with a rifle, and when he was training at the Whidbey Island he broke the base record for firing a 50 caliber machine gun. After Whidbey Island he was assigned to the naval seaplane base at Banana River, Florida for further training. What happened to him from there will always be a mystery.
All of those who knew Tom remembered him as a happy-go-lucky, very gregarious type of young person. There were few things he enjoyed more than getting a bunch of guys together in a local field for a game of football or other group sport. He didn’t just enjoy people, he enjoyed a crowd. Of course there were times when he was into mischief, like most other young boys, but he was a very responsible young man, and was always popular with others around him.
   The middle and late thirties saw the nation still in the echoes of The Great Depression. You didn’t expect to see an airplane in the sky over a small midwestern town everyday, and to see one up close was really a treat. Tom was always fascinated by any airplane. In his early teens he had some old photo albums in which he collected any pictures that he could find in magazines, newspapers, or whatever, including the small calling card size pictures and descriptions that came in packages of “Wings” cigarettes. When he had some change for the balsawood kits, he often bought and assembled the models.
   Tom had always enjoyed everything about airplanes. Then apparently, and perhaps somewhat ironically, on July 10, 1945, he died in one. He was a crewmember of a U.S. Navy PBM Martin Mariner that left its Banana River base that evening for a routine night training flight. Sometime after dark it disappeared in the Caribbean Sea, one large seaplane with twelve young men. It will never be known why, how, or exactly where. An extensive search with both surface vessels and aircraft was started immediately and continued for ten days, but nothing was found. They were all gone without a trace.

Robert Corner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Pilot of Navion A16, May 25, 1973

To Triangle “buffs” the disappearance of Bob Corner and Reno Regon is not

unknown. It is the last case mentioned by Charles Berlitz in his popular 1974

book, The Bermuda Triangle, and mentioned as the most recent case!

But beyond the names of Corner and Regon, there has been little public information.

I am grateful here for the information provided by Bob Corner’s sons, Chris and Robert.   
On May 25, 1973, Bob left Pager Field at 3:30 p.m. with his friend Reno Regon, for a trip to Freeport, Grand Bahama. Bob was flying a 1947 Navion A16, with full fuel tanks. As Freeport is only about 100 or so miles away to the northeast of Miami, there can be little worry about fuel shortage. 

   Midway in the flight, over West Palm Beach, Florida, Bob contacted Miami Air Control for weather information. Miami informs him there is a belt of severe thunderstorms between West Palm Beach and Freeport. He is instructed to turn southeast and circumnavigate the cells in order to make Freeport.
   There is another plane only 10 minutes behind him which is also given the same instructions. Both aircraft duly turn southeast to avoid the weather front and head to Freeport.
   After this moment nothing is ever heard from Bob Corner again. The aircraft only 10 minutes behind started an intensive search for the Navion, and backtracked on its course before heading back to Freeport. Meanwhile, the Coast Guard had swung into action and combed the route to Freeport. Despite this, no trace was ever found.

   Bob Corner was hardly a “weekend wing” flyer who only occasionally chanced to fly. He began in Oxford, England, in 1952, and had by the time of his disappearance  amassed over 5,000 flight time hours in several different types. He was conscientious about flying, maintained his planes in tip-top condition, and was careful to remain abreast developing weather conditions during his flights. He held an instrument rating and was capable of flying without any horizon whatsoever.  

Bob Corner, Courtesy of Chris and Robert Corner. “. . .surely this event changed our lives radically. My family was never the same. We never got over that day . . .very sad. He was a very funny man, loved to be a prankster.”

Corner was an excellent pilot, with no medical, financial or any problems. There was no reason for him to intentionally disappear and both he and his plane were well equipped for the short route. Courtesy of Robert and Chris Corner.

Home

   I am grateful here for the information provided by Bob Corner’s sons, Chris and Robert. 

  

Biography John Clutha McPhee

The Star Ariel is one of the most famous disappearances in the Bermuda

Triangle and, indeed, in the history of aviation. When it disappeared

in 1949, it also became a pivotal case for the developing mythos of

the Bermuda Triangle.

This web page is the biography of Star Ariel’s captain and pilot,

J.C. McPhee. If you have read the books on the Triangle, you

are familiar with McPhee’s last transmission and the sudden mystery

to which he and his airliner were then plunged. But until now no one has

really known anything about the pilot himself.

This web page is made possible by the work of his sister, Joan Beckett. She has

kindly given this author pictures, documents, even copies of a personal

letter and video of John playing golf on Bermuda. Through this web

page you will see the character of an expert pilot emerge, a brother
a peaceful spirit and a reflective man
John was born on June 21, 1918, in New Zealand, of Irish/Danish heritage. He was christened “Clutha” after a respected friend of the family, Sir Clutha McKenzie, who founded the Blind Institute and was himself blind. His early life passed as any other. He was educated at the Otago’s Boys’ High School and Victoria University College. Afterward he went on to become a member of the staff of an importers in Wellington. John was an intellectual spirit, though he tempered this with practicality and adventure. His hobbies included yachting, tennis, tramping and golfing. It seemed natural that he would decide to enlist in the RNZAF in 1942.
He quickly showed an aptitude for flying. He had a mature bearing, was charming and considered quite popular by the ladies.

Since the hottest action of the war was over Europe and Britain, John was one of many members of the Royal New Zealand Air Force who were sent to Canada for training. After he graduated, he was tranferred to England as a pilot of a Liberator bomber. His duty was to fly missions over Germany and France. He was then transferred to India for Lord Mountbatten’s Burma Campaign. One target was Amarapura, which straddled the Japanese supply lines and retreat route from Mandalay. The heavy bombing runs on January 25, 1945, were pulled off neatly, and John was naturally called upon to be interviewed by his hometown newspaper in New Zealand. “Fendalton Man in Big Bombing Raid” read the headlines. John, then a Warrant-Officer, gave the typical general view of the raid for the civilian audience. He described the sight of 3 fires


with smoke rising 4000 feet into the air. “The first squadron to go in had done a good job, for fires were burning in the target area when we arrived.”
John was transferred back to England and attached to the RAF for awhile, and this placed him in contact with the best airlines. A peacetime trade at a desk no longer seemed enough for him. He wanted to keep flying. When the war ended John was a Flight Lieutenant. He quickly attained civil flying licenses and found a job with B.O.A.C (British Overseas Airways Corp).
Early in 1947, however, better prospects surfaced. A new company B.S.A.A.C (British South American Airlines Corp) was formed, made up mostly of former RAF pilots. Amidst many old acquaintances and friends, John found himself flying regularly and on long routes. In February he again landed in the newspaper for having been the co-pilot on the world record

setting flight from London to New Zealand  on February 4, 1947, carrying Air Vice Marshal D.T.C. Bennett.
   The flight had been a triumph for BSAAC which as a new company had been playing second fiddle to BOAC. The flight, from London, the Mediterranean, Lydda, Karachi, Calcutta, Singapore, Darwin and Sidney, was a charter that BOAC was unable to accept, but BSAAC accepted it and with record breaking speed. But BSAAC was often run on a shoestring. As the newspaper article put it: “The plane would have to leave on its return flight almost immediately, as it was engaged in the London-Buenos Aires Service.”
   This flight attracted more press to BSAAC, and more possibilities. But for now the airline continued to live up to its name and command the British to South America airways.
  The new Tudor IV aircraft was also an added boon, so it seemed. BSAAC had been flying mostly converted York transports and Lancaster bombers. But the Tudor was a new,  sleek, specially designed airliner. The airline bought a number of them, and had even played a role in their development. 
McPhee would graduate to full captain shortly and get to fly the new Tudors. Although the pace was quick on the small airlines, its limited routes between Britain and South America made its pilots intimately familiar with the weather and idiosyncrasies of the run. The stopovers, though short, were also in some very plush spots, namely Bermuda.
   Bermuda came to be a major stopover for any BSAAC flight, since for one it was the only spot of land after the Azores on the who route until one came to Nassau and Kingston. Ferry flights to America for BOAC would often go to Canada and then down to the US, but it was not uncommon to see many BSAAC aircraft dotting the airfields of Nassau, Bermuda, Kingston, and the Azores.
   The Tudor IV was distinguishing itself as a beautiful plane, and BSAAC’s livery was a bland but attractive chrome silver, with streaking red lines, and the British union jack mounted on the tail rudder. However, it was also extensively used as a transport, and had distinguished itself in the Berlin airlifts in 1948. “Star Girls”—stewardesses for BSAAC. Although the names are unknown, one might be J.B. Moxon, the stewardess on Star Ariel. This is from John’s personal effects sent back home. Courtesy of Joan Beckett.Beautiful shot of a Tudor IV in BSAAC livery, from J.C. McPhee’s personal collection. Courtesy of Joan Beckett
During his Bermuda stopovers, John found time to do a little golf, enjoy the isolated island, and gather with all the pilot types at the White Horse Tavern in St. Georges.
   By 1949, he was just turning 31 years old. He had been a bomber pilot and civilian pilot and now wore the 4 stripes of  an airliner captain. He lived a quiet enough life in Middlesex, England,  and as a single, handsome man, was sociable enough but had still not found his mate. Both the writings of his sister and himself show them to be tasteful, unassuming and self-disciplined people.
   On January 9, 1949, he would pen this letter.   
  Dear Sister,
   Many thanks for the amusing book you sent me. That fellow Smith is quite a satirist—but I don’t think he can make up his mind whether he is one of “us” or still a visitor.
   Looking back on things— particularly the “scrum” *between 5 and 6, to say nothing of the discreet withdrawal to the “lounge” after 6 p.m., I cannot imagine what pleasure is derived from pub drinking.
   English pub life is quite [a] wonderful thing and there is little abuse of drinking. We all have our favorite local and what better than to pop in for a pint at your leisure during the evening?
   In fact, having written your letter, I shall probably take a walk down to the “Berkely Arms” and have one drink, maybe two, but no more; say hello to the local types and walk back.
   A pleasant and convivial way to pass an hour.
   I hate this mass production drinking.
   New Years Eve I went to a jolly party which saw the light of New Year’s Day. In fact the neighbors had a good view of me arriving home well after breakfast complete with bow-tie, etc.
  You possibly heard that our Chief Executive was drowned in Rio. We are not having a new one. Everyone gets a bump higher and the Chairman becomes managing director as well.
  Have not seen a show for a while, but the annual G & S season starts soon. Incidentally, I hope NZ puts up a show at cricket next season or I shall be forced to retire to the country during their visit here.
                                       Love to all,
                                                               John

.This letter, mailed on January 10, would not be the next time she heard of John. On Janaury 17, John piloted the Star Ariel from Bermuda to Kingston, with 19 persons aboard, including himself. That very day, Joan and her family heard a radio broadcast that it was missing. “We learned more the following day from a newspaper reporter and then spent an anxious time waiting for further news of the 'plane’s fate— it was some days before we learned there was no trace of Star Ariel.”
   With all hope given up, the family finally posted the obit  in the paper.   
tar Ariel.”
   With all hope given up, the family finally posted the obit  in the paper.  

What really did happen to Star Ariel? The search had been massive, including 2 US fleet carriers, Kearsage and Leyte, five other naval vessels and 63 aircraft. Nothing was ever found.

There had never been an SOS or inkling of trouble. The last the world had heard from John McPhee was a dull and routine position report.
   In 1951 Joan heard from a friend, John Veale, former RNZAF (later to become Pres. Air New Zealand), who had visited Bermuda recently, and met some of John’s old “flyer type” friends at the White Horse Tavern.   “Both Arthur Woodman and Kippenberger remember your brother very, very well, and we talked about him at some length. If it is any comfort to you Kippenberger told me that the search for the Star Ariel was the biggest search that he had even seen either during the war or after it, he himself being a very active participant. Apparently everything was flying in an endevour to find the missing Tudor, and from what I learned no stone was left unturned. . .”
   By the 1970s the Star Ariel was one of many listed as missing in the notorious “Bermuda Triangle.” No one was too interested in anything but the general points of the flight and how it fit with other incidents. Certainly no one was  interested in the persons on board. Perhaps this is why the incident was easy to dismiss when the profitable repast of  debunking soon came into vogue. Star Ariel, along with so many others, were finally written down to mundane pilot error or weather or, as in Larry Kusche’s hallmark of debunking The Bermuda Triangle Mystery—Solved, on an ineffective and tardy search.But for the families, friends, and for those who searched and knew the area, the questions were not so easily answered.
   In 1998 Joan’s daughter, Gini, placed an add in Flight International, at the suggestion of the Department of Transport which could no longer answer any of the family’s questions. In it she asked for information from anyone of the relatives of the lost crew and passengers.   In reply to this advertizment, there came one interesting letter. This was from an aviation engineer, Charles Martins, who had worked under Freddie Laker in the 1950s in an attempt to bring the Tudor IV back to usable flying status. He was assigned to see if the Tudor could be used for  carrying cargo. His job entailed cutting  a cargo door into one derelict Tudor to see if it was feasible. When cutting through the fuselage, he had a chance to examine the inner construction of the Tudor. As far as he could tell the Tudor was “prone to explosive decompression due to metal fatigue.”  He came to the firm opinion that this was the cause of both Tudors’ loss.
   Although we can never be sure, his theory is worth considering. He was able to bring back the Tudor IV as a cargo carrying aircraft, this time limited to lower altitude and therefore with no need for an hermetically sealed cabin and potential decompression. As he notes, the Tudor IV went on as the “Super Trader” to carry cargo all around the world without any more mysteries befalling it.
   Nevertheless,  there are certain points which still link the Tudors to mystery and argue against Martins’ theory. One, Tudors had been flying all over the world for BOAC and for BSAAC. None disappeared but Star Tiger and Star Ariel. Moreover, when the Star Tiger was lost, it was at an altitude of only 2,000 feet, making decompression irrelevant. Like Star

Martins’ sketch of the skin to fuselage connection (side view), revealing what he believed to be the weakness and cause of the Tudors’ sudden disappearances.

Ariel it was also a new plane, with only 500 hours flying time. The possibility of metal fatigue is not ruled out, but it seems less likely. True, Star Ariel was at a high altitude when lost, but if it exploded there should have been some form of debris located. Yet there was none. There was none from either.
   Martins, as have many others, brought up the loss of the 2 British Comet jetliners in the 1950s as an example of what metal fatigue can do. Both were suddenly lost. In their cases, however, both wrecks were eventually found (in the Mediterranean and in India), and the problem discovered. They were corrected and placed back in service.  The Tudors were investigated, but no problem was discovered. They were merely relegated to sit on the tarmac.
   I am also privy to yet another rumor. The first Civil Air Director for Bermuda, Wing Commander M.O. Ware, though in ailing health, recalls that an engineer was sent out from London to do tests on Tudors sitting idle on the field at Bermuda. His tests showed that fuel in some  had a tendency to accumulated in the engine farings, creating a potentially dangerous and explosive situation. Due to his ill health, however, he has been unable to locate his diary and confirm the engineer’s name and whether it was indeed the Tudor aircraft in question.
   All this aside, we are left with mystery to this day. It seems far more than coincidental that out of all the routes the Tudors flew, the only two to vanish were in the Triangle, each without trace.

Joan’s final memorial to her brother in 1999, the 50th anniversary: “NZ416216  Flight Lieutenant John Clutha McPhee, RNZAF and RAF 1942-1945. Captain of Tudor IVB “Star Ariel” G-AGRE which disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle on a flight between Bermuda and Kingston (Jamaica) on 17th January 1949”

Don Henry the person playing his life in burmuda triangle

Don Henry is a man who has seen it all. He has been a free diver, hard hat, salvage and tug captain since the end of World War II. The sea has trained every movement of his body, conditioned every reflex of his quick and piercing eyes. Even now in his retirement, his mannerisms and features are razor sharp, prepared for any quick action the sea might send his way. About 70 years old, he is still a strong hulk of a man that moves with great agility. Your hand will sink into his as he shakes it in friendly greeting. His white hair is crewcut short. He examines you like a prospective crewman. His frank eyes hold nothing back. The tone of his kind invitation to sit down almost sounds like a command, and makes you feel it is best never to experience his displeasure.
His eyes return frequently to the sea, to the topic of tugs, their design and history. But out of all the seas he has traveled, he has never been able to explain one incident back in 1966 while traveling through the Bermuda Triangle. His story has never changed since he first told it. He offers it in a straightforward manner, and is not given to theoretical digression. The following is a transcript, as noted in a conversation with him back in 1992. The pictures are those taken of him during his reenactment for Alan Landsburg in his 1977 Documentary Secrets of the Bermuda Triangle, in which he played himself.

FROM DON HENRY
Well, we were heading to the Miami-Lauderdale area where I had a salvage company at the time called Sea Phantom Exploration. We were on return trip from Puerto Rico, with a barge in tow. My tug was the Good News. She was a 160 foot tug with a lot of power, 2,000 horsepower. The barge itself was about 2,500 tons. We had it on a 600 foot towline. It had carried petroleum nitrate, but it was empty now. We were over the Tongue of the Ocean area— that’s part of the Bahamas— about 3 days out of Rico.
It was daytime, in the afternoon. I had been on the bridge for sometime since the morning, so I had gone to my cabin for a little rest which is just aft the bridge. While I was in my cabin, I heard a great deal of commotion coming from the bridge. The crew were hollering and screaming. I came running out onto the bridge and yelled “What the hell is going on here?!”


The chief officer was there, and he said ‘take a look at the compass, Cap.’
I walked over and looked. The gyro was spinning in a clockwise motion, and the magnetic compass was going completely bananas. I had never seen anything like it before. I knew a compass could tumble but never saw that on a boat. You just don’t get that much acceleration, especially on a tug. I had captained tugs since World War II, so I knew this was something weird. . . .The magnetic compass was simply going around and around.


“What the Hell is going on here?!”

It wasn’t the weather. The sea had been flat calm. Visibility had been good. It was somewhat cloudy but the clouds were high up. There were no storm clouds, cumulus and such.
We also had an electronic drain at this time, I guess you’d call it. Whatever it was, it drained everything. We had no communications of any kind over the radios. There were no lights. We lost the generators— they were running but produced no energy. There was just nothing. There was also a case of fifty batteries I had picked up in Rico that I just had to throw away. They were completely shot. This we found out later. We didn’t know this at the time.

During whatever this was, I went out on the bridge . . .I was going to check on the tug but the sky caught my attention first. There was no horizon now; You couldn’t see where the sky ended and the water began. It looked as if there was no ocean; and there was no sky. I mean, as if it were all one, blended together. I looked down on the ocean. All I saw was foam; it was like milk. The sky was the same color. There was just no definition between the two as there always is, so that’s why I say there was no horizon.


I automatically looked aft to the barge; it was a reflex reaction. But there was no barge! We had felt no snap. And we would have because if a barge like that had been severed from a tug pulling it with all its power, you’d take off like a scalded cat! I knew it had to be there but I couldn’t see it. The towline was leading back the way it was supposed to be, but there was simply no barge.
I ran to the after deck, then down to the towing deck, and started to pull the towing hawser— You can’t pull a 2,500 ton barge of course— but you can tell if something is attached. It was. The line was tight. It was very taught. There was something on the other end all right.


I still couldn’t see it though. There was a fog or something around it, like clouds, and the towline was running aft into that. I’ve likened it to the old Indian rope trick. The towline was just sticking out of a fog. . . but the fog was no where else. It was just around where the barge should be. The water was also more choppy immediately around where the barge should be.
That was enough for me! I ran back up to the bridge and kicked those throttles full ahead. It wasn’t like ‘full ahead and clear for action’: it was full ahead and let’s get the hell out of here!


I had heard about the Bermuda Triangle at this time; most every seaman about those waters had. I thought, my God I don’t want to be another statistic!
We plowed ahead . . .or tried to. It seemed that something was pulling us back. It was like being in the middle of two people pulling on your arms. We were trying to go forward under our power but we were being restrained. When you’ve been at sea for any amount of time, especially on tugs, you get a feel for it; you can tell when it is moving and when its being restrained; there is a vibration in a ship that is there all the time; you can tell when its going and when it isn’t.

Now coming out of this thing was just like coming out of a fog bank, gradual but steady. We could see the horizon again. We got everything back: the radios, the lights, the generators. We got the damn barge back. The line was leading back to it. That fog was gone.
I went back and tugged on the towline. The barge was solidly attached. We had a 3 and half inch towline on it and it hadn’t split. It was still intact.
We plowed ahead for some time. As soon as we got out of that spot, I went back to make sure everything was all right, that the line hadn’t weakened at the coupling during our struggle. I put a boat over the side and went back. The barge was warm, much warmer than it should have been. It wasn’t hot. I mean, you could touch it. But it was warmer, much warmer than would have been normal.
Like I’ve said, I was never leery about sailing the Bermuda Triangle afterward. It’s the thing that happened. The whole incident took only about, oh, I don’t know, 7 to 10 minutes, from the time I came onto the bridge until the barge came out of that fog. I mean, it scared the hell ot of me, but I’m not leery about going back down in there. You can’t avoid the area anyway. I’ve been captaining tugs and salvage operations from Puerto Rico to Canada. Its just something that happened and it made me into a ‘believer.’

Question: Had you ever experienced any changes like this in your compass before?

Not like this. I know they can spin around one complete time before coming on course again, if you pass over a large wreck or something. If you sit on a wreck they can go crazy. I salvaged Japanese warship wrecks in Tokyo Bay after the war so I know what it’s like. I’ve heard that compasses still spin over Iron Bottom Sound near Guadalcanal from all the ships that were sunk in the battles there.
A magnetic compass points toward true north from the magnetic pole, a gyro compass sets up its own magnetic field and points north. We later checked for a power flux that might have influenced the compass, but there had been any. We would keep a constant watch on our generator, to guard against that thing. If something like that goes unnoticed, you can go off course. In the Bahamas that can be bad since there are dangerous shallows.

Question: Where were you when this “weird experience,” as you call it, happened?

We were over the Tongue of the Ocean. It was over 3,000 feet deep where this happened.


Question: Did you think something extraordinary had happened?

Hell yes! I knew something big was going on, but once was enough! I couldn’t think of anything else but ‘My God, I’m next!”