Christopher Priest - The Separation

While we were still on the way to the bombing zone I began to work out the best course for home: the shortest route back to the German coastline, a dog-leg to take us around the known positions of certain German flak ships moored offshore, then, once we were safely out to sea, swinging round to take us by a direct westerly route towards the beacon on the Lincolnshire coast and after that to our airfield. All the time the aircraft was shifting attitude and position and bucking violently whenever a flak shell burst close to us, but from the sound of Ted Burrage’s voice, and from JL’s responses, I gained the impression that things were going as smoothly as could be expected. Those last moments before the drop were the worst for most of the crew, but it was a time of great concentration for the bomb aimer and pilot.

I forced myself to be calm, staring down at my maps and charts and trying to calculate angles and distances, but in reality what I was waiting for was the blessed moment when we felt the bombs being released from the bomb-bay.

‘Let’s go home!’ someone shouted as soon as the aircraft gave its familiar judder of relief. The plane was rising, free of the weight of the bomb load.

‘Keep your eyes peeled!’JL said brusquely. ‘There’s a long way to go yet.’

‘Can’t we lift above this lot?’

‘Bomb aimer, get back to your turret.’

‘Yes, skip.’

‘Christ! That one was close!’

‘Everyone all right?’

‘Yes, skip.’

‘Both engines normal.’

‘Anyone behind us?’

‘Another couple of Wellingtons.’

‘OK, hold on. We can’t turn yet. Searchlights ahead. Some poor devil has been coned.’

‘Can’t we go round them?’

‘They’re on all sides.’

Releasing the bombs had that effect. For a few minutes everyone was talking at once, the held-back fears and excitement rushing out of us. I waited for the others to quieten a little, then I read out our new course to JL. He repeated it back to me.

‘Turning now,’ JL said. I felt the plane moving to port, the engines’ note changing as they took up the temporary strain of the turn. It was all right, it was going to be all right. It felt all right after you dropped the bombs: illogically because the plane was lighter and you were heading for home, you believed the gunners on the ground couldn’t see you. If there were any fighters up they wouldn’t be looking for you anymore. The worst was over.

Except that on that night the worst was yet to come.

Something struck us explosively at the front of the plane. I felt the shock of the impact, was thrown against the wall of the aircraft by the blast and scorched by the sudden glare of white flame as it ballooned briefly down the fuselage. I fell to the floor as the plane tipped over.

‘That’s it! Bail out, everyone!’

I heard JL’s desperate words through the intercom, but they were followed by a dead silence on the earphones. The intercom lead had jerked out of its socket as I fell. I think I blacked out for a few seconds. Then I was back, in an agony of pain. Blood was running down over my eyes, gluing my eyelids. Something must have hit me in the leg, high up, close to the hip. When I put my hand down to see what damage there was, I could feel more blood all over my trousers and tunic. Freezing cold air was jetting in through a large hole in the floor, below and slightly to the side of my desk. All the lights were out. The engines were screaming and the angle of the plane’s dive was rolling me towards the front. My injured leg banged against something jagged that was sticking out from the floor and I yelled with pain.

Suddenly terrified that I alone had survived the explosion, that I was trapped inside the plane as it plunged towards the ground, I dragged myself from under the remains of my navigation table and pulled myself along the uneven floor of the fuselage. Because of the plane’s steep angle it was easier than it would otherwise have been, but I had to get past the large hole that had appeared in the floor. The broken spars of the plane’s geodetic hull jutted up sharply.

I had managed to squeeze past the hole when I heard the note of the engines change. They throttled back, under control, and I felt the downward pressure of G-force on me as the plane levelled out of its dive. I’d rolled forward so that I had fetched up against the back of the pilot’s seat. I hauled myself up and saw JL sitting there, silhouetted by the dim light from the instruments. He was at a crooked angle, but reaching forward with both hands to hold the control stick. The front of the aircraft had suffered great damage: most of the fuselage ahead of the cockpit had been blown apart. Freezing air battered in against us.

Seeing the difficulty he was having with the controls, I reached over and tried to help him by taking some of the weight of the column, but he brushed my hand aside. My intercom lead had followed me down the fuselage so I plugged it into the socket on the instrument panel.

I shouted, ‘Are you hurt, JL?’

‘No!’ His voice was high with tension. I glanced up at him, but his face was unreadable behind the oxygen mask and flying goggles. ‘Well, nothing serious. It got me in the gut,’ he said. ‘But I think it’s OK. More like a big punch than a wound. What about you? You’re covered in blood.’

‘Head wound. Something wrong with my leg.’

‘What about the others?’

‘I haven’t seen anyone else.’

‘I told everyone to bail out.’

‘I heard that. What about Ted Burrage? Or Lofty?’

‘I don’t know. Remind me of that course to get us home!’

‘Do you think we can make it?’

‘I’m going to have a damned good try!’

The plane was apparently responding to the controls, although there was extensive damage to the fuselage. Both engines were running OK, but JL said that the port engine was starting to overheat.

The shock of the explosion wiped all thoughts from my mind and I couldn’t remember the course I’d worked out. I crawled back to the remains of the nav cubicle, holding the emergency torch. By some miracle my pad was on the floor beside the hole, the pages fluttering stiffly in the gale. I grabbed it and hauled myself back to the cockpit. I read out the two courses and JL confirmed them. For a moment it felt as if we were flying normally.

By the time the plane was back on a more or less even keel we had long since crossed the German coast and were heading out over the North Sea. Our course no longer had to be exact, because once we were close to British air space there were direction-finding aids we could use. Getting lost was the least of our worries. Of greater concern was the condition of the port engine, which had obviously taken a hit somewhere. JL throttled it back to ease some of the strain, then a few minutes later he pulled it back a little more.

‘How long before we lose too much height?’ I shouted.

‘An hour maybe.’

‘Are we going to make it?’

‘What’s the distance to the coast?’

‘More than a hundred miles.’ It was only a guess. Without my charts and instruments I couldn’t be sure of anything.

‘I think at least one of us will be OK,’JL said, but he knew as little as I did. Those were the last clear words I heard him utter. Suddenly, the dark sea filled our forward view, pale ripples reflecting the moonlight. We were already much lower than I had realized. Our dive had taken us to about a couple of hundred feet above the sea. JL leaned the weight of his body to the side, shoving the control column to the left - the plane briefly steadied, but we were so close to the surface of the water that we could see the surging shape of the waves.