False Flag

Panamanian registry of merchant ships is a handy thing for shippers and seamen who want to make big money breaking embargoes--or trading with the enemy. In 1925, Panama passed a law permitting foreign shipowners to switch their ships to Panamanian nationality by registering at any Panama consulate for a small tonnage fee. When the 1939 U.S. Neutrality Act forbade U.S. ships to enter war zones, some U.S. lines made use of these handy facilities. After the war, more switched to Panama because they could save money by employing non-union labor under Panamanian registry. How many U.S. ships flying Panama's red, white, and blue colors are now trading with the Reds is best known to the crews of U.S. Navy patrol planes who keep an angry eye on them in the Pacific. Last week Jim Lucas, correspondent for the Scripps-Howard newspapers, went out with one of the patrol planes, reported:

THE big Navy plane, a Privateer, dropped low over the water, barely 150 feet above the surface. Looking from the tiny ports, it seemed that even a moderate-sized wave could reach up and capsize us. Lieut. Bill McCord, at the controls, swore beautifully and expressively.

"It's another Panamanian," he said.

"Panamanian, hell," someone answered. "Henry Kaiser built that one."

"They're Not Fooling Anyone." The big Privateer buzzed the lumbering freighter almost at the mouth of a major Siberian harbor. Some crewmen caught on deck waved, probably in embarrassment. Or maybe you only imagined that, because you'd be embarrassed. Others scurried for hatches and doorways.

Lieut. J. H. Marovish of Los Angeles, the copilot, opened the window. The rain beat into the cockpit, drenching us all. Lieut. Marovish then leaned over the side, aiming his big camera. Again we passed over the ship, almost at mast height. Lieut. Marovish opened and closed his shutter, and came back to his seat wringing wet. Almost angrily he put the camera back into his case. The freighter carried the Panama flag sure enough, but everything about it looked American.

"They're not fooling anyone," said Lieut. McCord. "They're American owned, American manned, and carrying American freight. On some, even the decks are loaded. On others, we can see American crews on deck--at least, they look like Americans, from masthead height. Sure as hell, they're not Panamanians."

The Snapshot Albums. We had been on patrol since dawn. It would be dark before we got home. We had two missions --to plot weather and spot ships. There's nothing to do about the shipping, of course, except to take pictures. But some day the snapshot albums showing ships which carried goods to unfriendly ports while Americans were dying in Korea may prove interesting. You could hope so, anyhow.

Back in Japan we had leafed through the files. We had seen hundreds of ships photographed, heading for Siberian or Chinese ports. Many--perhaps the majority--flew the Panama flag. But there were also pictures of British--one incongruously named City of Chicago--Greek, Russian, French and Japanese ships in the telltale files. All had been snapped since the first of the year. Some had deck cargoes--lumber, steel. Others were laden with oil for the tanks of Red China. Some were shown coming back empty.

"We Know They Know." Tomorrow's communique will merely say that "Navy Privateers continued routine patrol operations." Routine is the right word. The communiques could say nothing about the endless boredom, the aching discomfort endured by 13 men sealed in a steel flying tube for ten or twelve hours. Or the gnawing, ever-present fear of the unexpected which could plunge you into the water below--or, worse, make you a prisoner in Siberia. "We know they know we're here," said Lieut. McCord. "Our radar shows when their radars are working. Sometimes they send up fighters, but not on a day like this. We've seen them on the screen, but they've never found us."

We had flown up the coast of Japan past the straits dividing Honshu from Hokkaido and into the Japan Sea. It had been a miserable day from the start. At midmorning we began a gradual descent. Tony Ricotta, radarman, spotted two "ships" on the screen. One turned out to be a thick cloud. The other was the lumbering Panamanian off Siberia.

Not the Only One. This was a reserve crew, fresh from civilian jobs. They'd been mobilized in September to come to the Far East in February. Bill McCord owned his own printing and binding plant outside Los Angeles. Lieut. Marovish was a prosperous insurance broker. He had bought a new home a few weeks before being recalled. The business was going down every day and he was worried sick. Sooner or later he feared he'd lose that house. Their skipper back at the base was Lieut. Commander Ray Nittinger, Lieut. Marovish's insurance partner. It isn't easy for men like these to swallow this sort of thing without gagging slightly.

We left Siberian waters and headed down the coast toward Japan. Out at sea, Lieut. McCord lifted the ship several thousand feet. It was dark when we landed. Lieut. Commander Nittinger was waiting for us. He invited us to stay for dinner.

"That Panama flag you saw isn't the only one out here, by a long shot," he said over a big steak. "If it had been a clear day you'd have seen five or six. And there'll be more tomorrow. I can't understand that. Not when we've lost 65,000 men in Korea already."

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