Routine submarine patrol completed, the broad-winged Catalina lumbered baseward across Greenland's icecap, through a formless, numbing nothingness of snow and ice and haze and white fingers of sun feeling through clouds. Suddenly there was the awful crunch of hull against frozen snow and ice. The pilots grabbed for the throttles. The plane rose for an instant, settled, slid 300 feet up the slope of centuries-old ice, turned to rest on her left wing tip, stopped dead. An alert radio operator flashed an S O S.
For two weeks the crew of seven lived...
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