Exactly what happened out there in the water on a certain June night cannot be told. But the people of a small New England town (pop. less than 4,000) can guess. About 11 p.m., when the fog cleared and the stars came out, Frank Aresta, a policeman (by day, a grocer) on dimout duty, saw a flash followed by low, rolling thunder, then another and another. Said he to Carpenter James Thomas: "Storm, hell—that's shootin'." He telephoned the Coast Guard station. Soon a plane roared out to sea.
Preparations for Disaster. At 6:45...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
