The Auburn C-47B
“Lost on Final Approach”
A/C 43-16374
November 28, 1945
Copyright 2002
By Don R. Jordan
9/26/07
This C-47B was a regularly scheduled Military Air
Transport Flight (MAT) that was attempting to land at McClellan Field
near Sacramento, California on a stormy winter night in 1945.
Designated MAT 115 it departed Davis-Mathon Field, Tucson, Arizona at
2:07 in the afternoon on November 28th. Onboard were three crew
members and twenty-two passengers. Fortunately, one lucky soul
got off the aircraft later that afternoon at the regularly scheduled
stop in Palm Springs. The remaining 21 passengers continued on to
Sacramento.
In command of the flight was Lt. Jerry F. Cebe, age
36 from St. Louis, Missouri. Acting as copilot was Major Louis G.
Martin, age 26 of Patterson, California. Martin had just returned from
a thirty-three month long tour of duty in the Mediterranean Theater.
The Flight Clerk was Corporal Paul G. Pitterle from Freeport,
Illinois. Cebe was a regularly assigned pilot on the MAT flights,
but Martin had only recently been assigned as a copilot. He had more
than a thousand hours of flying time in C-47s, but very little
experience as a MAT pilot. This was his first time to fly
this particular route. Cebe was training Martin on the California
route and MAT procedures in general. The passengers were
all seated in the warm dry cabin of the transport with their safety
belts fastened, waiting anxiously for the lights of the runway to
finally come into view. This was the last stop for them after the
long trip home from their tour of duty in Italy. Most could
not understand why they had not landed yet. They saw the lights
of Sacramento come into view fifteen minutes ago. One fellow got
impatient and went to the rear of the airplane for another cup of
coffee from the big in-flight coffee thermos mounted on the rear
bulkhead.
The passengers all shared a common background.
They were all Japanese-Americans who chose to fight for their adopted
homeland. Many of their relatives and friends who did not join
the military were confined to relocation camps with names like
Manzanar, Tule Lake, and Heart Mountain. It was unusual to find
that all of their military serial numbers were numerically very close
together. They were all in the Infantrymen, and were no doubt thinking
of home, and the friends they left behind on the battlefield. The list
of names is as follows:
Kiyoto Yokoyama, Howard Murakami, Saburo Imai,
Lawrence Iwamoto, Charles Higa, Rolf Hecht, Attilio De Mattie, Isamo
Kanekuni, Hideo Kakagawa, Nick Shimazu, Tomio Sunahara, Raymond Tanaka,
Morie Akutagawa, Hiroyuki Miramoto, Robert Iwamoto, Takemi Kajikawa,
Yukemi Kajikawa, Masomi Ohara, Masaki Higa, Robert Ikeda, and Tokyo
Kamashige. All of the above-named passengers were being assigned
to the Beale Army Separation Center near Marysville, California.
Camp Beale, now called Beale Air Force Base, is located just thirty
miles north of Sacramento. After the war, Beale was a separation
center for service personnel being discharged from active duty.
After departing Palm Springs at 3:41 p.m. the route
of flight was directly to Fresno in CFR conditions. The term
“CFR” means Contact Flight Rules, which is to say that the pilots had
visibility of about 10 miles. From Fresno, the customary
bad weather in the San Joaquin Valley made it necessary to file an
Instrument Flight Plan (IFR) for the remainder of the flight to
McClellan. As darkness descended upon the valley, MAT 115 would
intercept Airways Route Blue 10 near Fresno, California and then
proceed up the Airway to Sacramento.
At 6:11 p.m. Sacramento Air Traffic Control (ATC)
gave the following clearance to MAT 115, which was at that time just
passing over Stockton, California:
“MAT 115 is cleared CFR to McClellan tower.
Cross Sacramento [radio] at 3,000. Final approach on SW leg of the
Sacramento range. Report when over Sacramento [radio] and when Contact.”
One minute later Cebe reported his position as being
over the City of Stockton, which is about 50 miles south of
Sacramento. He estimated Sacramento at 6:32 p.m. By now,
the sun had gone down and darkness fell upon the valley. High
above Lodi, California, the crew of MAT 115 switched on their
Navigational and cockpit instrument lights. Then they began
to review the approach procedures for a night landing at McClellan.
At this point the flight appeared to be normal and
routine. According to one surviving passenger the crew seemed
calm and relaxed. As they sat thinking of the war
years, some of the men onboard were watching the lights of the many
small farming towns slowly passing beneath their wings. Too many
this was home. A home they hadn’t seen in perhaps two or three
years. Perhaps they were thinking about their many dangerous
experiences in combat. No doubt they were glad it was over now,
and soon they would be back home with their families. Some, who
lived in this area before enlisting in the service, were pointed out
familiar landmarks to the buddy next to him.
At 6:25 p.m., just as the aircraft passed over the
Sacramento Radio station, one passenger, Attilio De Mattei, stood
up and proclaimed;
“Hey fellas
there’s Sacramento down there. That’s my hometown”!
It would be the last time De Mattei would see his home!
A little higher up on the Airways was MAT Special
554. It was another MAT flight that was in route to Mather Field,
which is just southeast of Sacramento. The pilot of MAT 554 was
Capt. Frederick R. Beam. In a statement to the investigation
board, Beam stated that when he was about ten minutes out from
Sacramento, and at 5,000 feet altitude, he heard ATC give MAT 115 his
final clearance. He heard both sides of the conversation and did
not detect any concern or anxiety in the voice of the MAT 115 pilot.
After several more brief radio contacts between the
aircraft and ATC, MAT 115 made its first contact with McClellan Tower
at 6:50 p.m.
“McClellan Tower,
MAT 115 is Contact 4 miles west of McClellan Field, requesting landing
instructions.”
The tower responded with the appropriate landing
information, which included the wind, altimeter setting and landing
runway. Then the tower operator settled down to wait for
visual contact with the approaching aircraft. As he handled the
other traffic landing at McClellan that night, he occasionally scanned
the horizon to the west looking for MAT 115 on final approach. In
the C-47, the Flight Clerk entered the passenger cabin and ordered all
passengers to fasten their seatbelts. He said they would be
landing in about ten minutes. After five minutes the C-47
still had not come into view, so at 6:55 p.m., the tower operator asks
MAT 115 to flash his landing lights for identification. MAT 115
flashed his lights, but the tower still could not locate the
aircraft. Then a minute later MAT 115 was back on the air
and stated that they had been mistaken with their initial position
report, and were now heading back to the Sacramento Radio Cone for
another attempt at finding the field. A Missed Approach was not
uncommon or dangerous. Surely they would see the field on the
next attempt!
It was obvious however that Cebe and Martin was
having some difficulty finding McClellan Field, but there wasn’t any
cause for alarm at this point. Cebe had flown this same route
seven times before this flight, including one night landing. And
at Sacramento the terrain was flat for miles around, except to the
east. To the east of Sacramento, near the small town of Auburn,
the terrain began to rise rapidly in the Sierra Nevada Mountain
Range. The weather near McClellan was clear, but to the east it
was raining hard with very poor visibility. Even if the low
clouds obscured the rising terrain around Auburn, the glow from the
city’s lights should have been discernable from an aircraft passing
directly overhead. Seeing the lights below would give a pilot a
good indication of his height above the terrain.
On this stormy and rainy night there was a cruel
twist of fate in store for Cebe. At 5:28 p.m. that afternoon, the
city municipal lighting system in Auburn had failed, which left the
entire city and the surrounding area in total darkness. The power
would not be restored until 7:00 p.m., but by that time it was too late
for MAT 115. Three miles northwest of Auburn on the
old Baxter Cattle ranch in Sailor’s Ravine Joe C. Snyder and Jimmie
Hubbard were just settling in for the night. Both were hired
hands on the ranch, and lived with the Baxter sisters in the old
original family ranch house. They each had separate rooms, and
helped the sisters tend to the many chores usually found on an active
cattle ranch. It had rained all day, and both were wet and
cold. Neither man had any idea of the traumatic events that were about
to unfold just two-hundred yards away across Baxter Grade Road.
In a recent interview, now 82-year-old Jim Hubbard
said, “It was raining hard outside.
We were just sitting there around the stove getting warm from being out
in the rain all day. The lights had gone off and on several times
in the short time that we were in the house.”
Surviving passengers would later comment that
through the cabin windows, they had seen the lights of Sacramento
slowly disappear from view toward the rear of the plane, and then after
several climbs and turns, they saw a green rotating beacon off in the
distance. That beacon was most likely the airport beacon at the
auxiliary landing field just northeast of Auburn. During the
blackouts it was kept operating by an emergency back-up power
supply. The airport elevation at Auburn is 1520 feet above sea
level. The fact that McClellan Field did not yet have an
instrument approach procedure, or even a directional navigational radio
aid, made it some times very difficult to find McClellan Field at night
and in poor weather. For directional aid arriving IFR aircraft
would “home” in on the Airways Beacon located on the municipal airport
13 miles to the west. Then they would fly contact flight
[visually] on a heading of 023 degrees for four minutes at 120 mph, or
until the runway at McClellan was sighted. If after seven minutes
the pilot did not see the airfield, he was to make a pull-up maneuver
[Missed Approach] and return to the beacon for another try. It
was a crude approach, but it had always worked . . . until that
night!
At 7:05 p.m., MAT 115 once again established contact
with the McClellan Tower. This time they stated that they had
been flying on a heading of 023 degrees from the radio beacon for the
last two minutes, but still did not have the field in sight yet. The
tower operator told the pilot to watch the tower for the green signal
light, which he then flashed in all four directions.
At 7:07 p.m., MAT 115 reported that they had now
flown four minutes on the same heading, but still could not find the
airfield, or see the green signal light. Somehow MAT 115 had missed the
beacon, or had overshot the airport and was now over the Auburn area at
a very dangerously low altitude.
Tension began to mount in the McClellan Control
Tower when at 7:10 p.m., MAT 115 was asked for his position. The
pilot replied, “Have flown
four minutes on a heading of twenty-three degrees from the Sacramento
cone. Do not have McClellan in sight. We’re not sure where we
are, but we’re gonna [sic] turn back to the Sacramento range to try
once more.”
The tower acknowledged the transmission and then
asked MAT 115 what his altitude was. Despite many attempts by the
McClellan control tower, and the control tower at Mather Field, there
was no further contact with the aircraft! MAT 115 had just
disappeared.
At 7:15 p.m., Snyder and Hubbard suddenly heard the
loud roar of a big airplane approaching the house from the north.
They both jumped up and went to the window. Once there they
starred in disbelief as a red flashing light moved horizontally across
their northern wheat field just two hundred yards away. The sound
of the engines was terrific as the aircraft passed a mere twenty feet
above the field and crossed Baxter Grade Road heading in a southwestern
direction. Once it crossed the road it began to hit the tops of
the many Oak trees in the area. Immediately after hearing the
sound of breaking tree limbs they heard the loud unmistakable sound of
an airplane crash.
Hubbard, Snyder, and the Baxter sisters all ran out
onto the front porch and immediately noticed a large fire burning on
the small hillside not more than one quarter of a mile away.
Silhouetted against the light from the fire was the tail section of a
large transport type aircraft. As the Baxter girls watched,
Snyder and Hubbard dashed off the porch and made their way through the
muddy field to the crash site. What greeted them when they
arrived was a horrific sight of death and destruction. The C-47
had literally flown into the ground in level flight, killing the crew
and many of the passengers upon impact. By the light from the
raging fire, which was now consuming the forward section of the
aircraft, Snyder and Hubbard could see that the crew in that section
was already dead. They saw many bodies lying scattered around and
within the remains of the aircraft. Since there was nothing more
that they could do, they stayed back from the flames and out of danger.
Suddenly, from somewhere inside of the mangled
fuselage, came a blood curdling scream for help. Someone
was alive in there, and regardless of the danger, they were going to
get him out. If there was one survivor, there may be
others. So disregarding his own personal safety, Hubbard rushed
forward and entered the aft fuselage section, which was still partially
intact. After cautiously removing the remains of the rear cargo
go he peered inside. He found the source of the screaming and
quickly began trying to move the seriously injured passenger out and
away from the flames. After removing some of the seats that were on top
of the man, Hubbard could now see that his legs were trapped within the
twisted wreckage.
“He was screaming
in pain, and trying to get his legs out of the broken pipes and cables
in the bottom of the airplane. He was all tangled up in the cables, but
I finally got him out. When I tried to lift him up, he began
screaming in pain again. He was bloody, and hurt real bad.
I got him out though and laid him down in the rain about fifty feet
from the plane. Then I went back to look for more.”
Once back inside he could see that there were
many others still trapped and in dire need of assistance.
He called for Snyder to help, but there was just too much wreckage to
move by themselves. “Joe sent
me down the road to a nearby house to call the Sheriff’s office for
help.”
Snyder stayed with the wreckage and tried to help
the other survivors as best he could. In all, he found sixteen
badly injured men who had survived the impact and fire. Some were
unconscious, while others were moaning or screaming in pain. A
few, though badly injured, actually walked out of the wreckage without
assistance. Once outside they walked around in the rain, or
just sat on the ground in shock. He was helpless to ease their
suffering, and could do nothing but stand by and listen to the terrible
sounds of men moaning in agony.
When Jimmie finally return from calling the Sheriff,
he was amazed at what he saw.
“There were
people laying everywhere.” He said. But the rain had pretty much
put the fire out. There was just some small ones burning.
So I went back in the wreck to check things out. I noticed the
big coffee thermos was still full of coffee, so I grabbed it and made
my way back outside again.”
Snyder and Hubbard took the men who could walk back
up to the ranch house to get them out of the rain. Once there the
Baxter sister began to tend to their injuries. They also gave
them some hot coffee from the thermos Jimmie retrieved. For some
odd reason, the injured men found it too hot inside the house. So
they went back out and sat on the porch while waiting for help to
arrive. Maybe it was shock, or the fear of being in an enclosed
space that drove them out.
“It took
forty-five minutes for the first ambulance and rescue crews to arrive.”
Jimmie would recall.
“I think they went
all the way down to Lincoln before turning back. They just
couldn’t find the right place in the storm. Altogether I think
there was about twenty-three ambulances that finally did show up.
They came from Mather, Dewitt [Army Hospital], McClellan, and Beale.
They came and went all night long, and some got stuck in the soft mud
alongside of the road.”
When they finally did arrive Snyder pointed out
where each victim was, and then did what he could to help carry them
out. Before midnight the fires would be completely out- doused by
the pouring rain. During the night all of the more seriously
injured would be transported to the Dewitt Army Hospital in
Auburn. Dewitt was only four miles away. The less seriously
injured would be taken to the base hospitals at Mather, McClellan, and
Beale. Most would be traumatized for the rest of their lives from
the events that occurred that night.
Hubbard added, “The
rescue work continued on all night. At times it was hard to tell
who was in charge. Everyone was giving orders and telling us what
to do. There was a lot of confusion that night.”
With the early morning light, the scene in Sailor’s Ravine was truly
bizarre. A small city of people had descended on the Baxter
Ranch. There were fire crews, rescue crew, military people,
several people from the local Sheriff’s office, and a few newspaper
reporters were all wandering around the crash site. The last
ambulance with the living left the area around midnight. The dead
were still in the wreckage. When the sun came up the sad task of
removing them was begun.
Hubbard and Snyder didn’t help with that part of the
job. “It was gruesome! I
couldn’t watch. Those poor fellow! Joe and I went back to the
house.” Hubbard remembered.
Two days after the crash, and after the
investigation was completed, the military brought in a large flat-bed
truck with a “tank” on it. The tank that Hubbard recalled was
most likely a military tracked vehicle. After the remains of the
C-47 were cut into smaller pieces and loaded on a sled the tank would
drag the sled to the road. The pieces were then loaded onto
the flat-bed truck to be hauled way. The tracked vehicle and sled
were necessary because of the rain-soaked ground around the crash
site. A wheeled vehicle would have just bogged down in the thick
mud.
When all of the larger pieces of the aircraft had
been removed, the remaining smaller pieces were thrown into a hole and
buried on the spot. A Caterpillar tractor was brought in to dig
the hole, and to cover it up again. Many days after the accident
Hubbard was riding his horse on the hillside where the accident
occurred. In the freshly dug mud from the burial hole he saw
something shinny sticking up from the ground. He dismounted to
have a closer look. There, in the mud and dirt, was a set of
pilot wings. After collecting the wings, he got back on his horse
and road away. Months later Bess Cebe, the wife of Jerry Cebe,
came to the Baxter Ranch to see the place where her beloved husband had
died. Hubbard gave the shinny airman’s wings to her. He
told her that they most likely were pinned on his uniform at the time
of the crash. He thought she should keep them for their five-year old
son. The grieving widow was thankful, and left the ranch never to
return.
In the coming months it would be determined that
pilot error was the primary cause of this accident. But the
contributing factors were the lack of a radio homing aid at McClellan
Field, the lack of an Instrument Approach Procedure for McClellan, and
last but not least, the municipal power failure just as the C-47 was
trying to make the approach to land at McClellan. Without the
city lights the two pilot on MAT 115 were not able to judge their
altitude above the terrain when they missed the approach and wandered
over the low-lying hills to the east of Sacramento. The aircraft
should not have been that far to the east in the first place, but the
lights would have been a good indication of the dangerously low
altitude. They would have given the pilots plenty of warning and
time to pull up.
As a result of this accident, McClellan Field would
get a Localizer radio aid within a few months. The Localizer
radio beam would safely guide the approaching aircraft to the end of
the runway without the need to fly around looking for the lights of the
tower or runway. Now they could let down through the thickest
cloud cover, and still be assured that when they broke out in the clear
the runway, and not trees, would be there to greet them.
Looking back at this accident, it’s hard to believe
that something like this could have happened. The boom in
aviation activity cause by World War II caught the aviation safety
experts completely off guard. Most of today’s aviation rules and
regulation were developed during World War II primarily because of the
many unfortunate fatal accidents that occurred during those turbulent
times. Air travelers of today should be grateful for their sacrifice.