Colin Gee - Initiative

As Nelleson emerged into the rear crew space, Hanebury’s voice summoned Crail’s attention away from his instruments.

“Pilot, tail. I’ve found trouble. Some damaged cables here, stand by.”

Suddenly, colour became all-important.

It was Nelleson’s voice that announced the bad news.

“Pilot, co-pilot. Yellow and black are slightly damaged, but should be fine. We can do something with them. Green are partially cut through. Repeat, green are partially cut through, over.”

Crail digested the information.

It didn’t explain the inability to level the airplane, but it might explain why certain movements seemed to catch and hang up.

Green was the right rudder cable.

‘Shit!’

He swallowed before thumbing the mike.

“Can you rig it, over?”

Nelleson answered hesitantly.

“We can try, JP, we can try.”

‘Shit!’

Crail elected for a calmer spoken response.

“Do what you can. I’ll keep her level and steady, and no rudder commands without warning. Out.”

Crail exchanged looks with Loveless.

“Pilot, navigator, plot the shortest course to the nearest strip that can handle us, over.”

1st Lieutenant Chris Fletcher was not considered a wizard navigator for nothing, and his response was instant.

“Okinawa, Pilot. Kadena airfield, with seven thousand, five hundred feet of runway, is closest… range five hundred and eight miles. Futenma field is nine thousand feet of metalled if you want more distance, but is five miles more, over.”

Crail made a quick decision.

“Futenma. We’ll go for the extra feet, over.”

“Roger, Pilot. Course 187, over.”

“Roger.”

The work party in the radar compartment received the manoeuvre warning and warily observed the damaged cable as the B-29 adjusted the few degrees to starboard to assume the right course for Futenma Airbase, Okinawa.

In the wrecked radar section, Nelleson and Hanebury moved some pieces of twisted metal aside, metal that extended into the space better occupied by control cables.

The co-pilot thought out loud.

“This is a major problem. It’s catching on this piece of frame.”

He turned to Blockridge, who had remained within the communications tube.

“Go and grab the tool kit, Austin.”

Blockridge disappeared and Nelleson made his report.

“Co-pilot, pilot, over.”

“Talk to me, Nellie.”

“Surface lock cable isn’t in the run. Must have been severed. We need to work on the area round the damaged cable, and try and reinforce it. Austin’s on his way back for tools. Recommend no heavy manoeuvres at any time, over.”

“Roger, Nellie, tools on the way back to you right now, out.”

“Art, open the cable panel down by your station. Find the red/black coupling… undo it… it’s fucked anyway… recover the wire so we can rig something here. OK?”

Hanebury nodded and set off towards the tail as the tube hatch opened and Blockridge returned with the small toolbox.

The two men set to work with a small prise bar and a screwdriver, working the damaged metal away from the cable run.

“Oh fuck, Nellie, look at that!”

Nelleson looked at where Blockridge’s eyes were fixed.

“Oh God.”

The area above the hole and across the top of the radar station had a small but very discernible defect in the metal skin.

Staff Sergeant Austin Blockridge looked around him, checking things out, one side, then the other, then back up above his head.

“Compression. The frame’s bending upwards!”

Nelleson repeated the assessment exercise and saw angles where there should be straight lines.

“Shit! You’re right.”

Blockridge grabbed the measure and took a few moments to compare the frame distances on either side of the fuselage.

“Three inches out on starboard side.”

Now that the numbers were available, the eye could make out the lean on two of the frames.

“Rig something quick. Stop them shifting.”

The NCO grabbed the body and dragged it to one side, laying the unidentifiable corpse on one of the crew berths, just to give himself some room in which to work.

The small table had taken a hit, but the metal and wood top surface looked a hell of a lot like it was of a size for part of the job.

Blockridge grabbed it and worked in between the most forward problem frame and the rigid part.

Grabbing the hammer from the kit, a few hefty taps jammed it in place.

Hanebury returned, carefully avoiding the grisly lump of meat now laid on a crew bed, a looped piece of cable held tightly in his hand.

He passed the cable across to Nelleson as Blockridge grabbed his shoulder.

“We need to fill in between these two frames here. The fuselage is bending,” his hand pointed out the compression fold in the upper fuselage, which Hanebury studied in horror, whilst the assistant flight engineer noted the obvious deterioration.

“Grab the hacksaw, Art.”

Blockridge measured up and pulled out a grease pen.

“Strip the mattress off that bunk.”

The light mattress went flying in an instant and Nelleson marked out the cuts he wanted made.

“Get these cut out and we can wedge these in as struts. Quick as you can, Art.”

There was no reply, just the urgent sound of a hacksaw biting into metal, as Hanebury set about creating the metalwork to stop the frames moving.

Nelleson increased Crail’s stress, and for the matter, the stress levels of everyone who heard his report.

“Roger, out.”

Crail didn’t know whether to grip the stick more firmly or relax his hands.

The starboard inner made his mind up for him.

“That’s hot,” the flight engineer declared to no one in particular, reading the gauge that relayed the oil temperature.

“Say again, Ralph?”

“JP, the starboard inner oil is running red hot. Shot up very suddenly.”

“Pressure’s dropping too…”

Eyes craned for a view, and Loveless announced a new problem in synch with the assistant flight engineer.

“Black smoke, she’s just belched black smoke.”

“JP, starboard inner oil pressure’s gone!”

Eighty-five US gallons of lubricating oil were deposited within the engine mount in a matter of seconds.

Crail reacted quickly, closing the starboard inner down and feathering the prop, the assistant flight engineer also doing his part.

He adjusted the aircraft, tinkered with the throttle settings and trims, and found no new handling problems.

He informed the crew, adding to their collective mental anguish.

“Pilot, co-pilot. Talk to me, Nellie.”

Nelleson replied, his words punctuated by the sound of background hammering, as Blockridge and Hanebury did their best to increase the integrity of the airframe, despite the pain of their recently acquired scalds.

“Co-pilot, pilot, we just got a wash of hot engine oil. Send down the aid kit, over.”

“Pilot, co-pilot, starboard inner just let go. Everyone OK, over?”

“We’re still working, JP, but it hurts like hell, over.”

Nelleson had taken the lion’s share of the scalding hot oil, the left side of his face sticky and already swollen.

“Nellie, aid kit is on its way. How’s the aircraft, over?”

“Co-pilot, pilot, we’re reinforcing the framework with metal struts. Seems to be holding, but we’re doubling up to make sure, over”

He looked at the destroyed bed frames, all victims of Hanebury’s hacksaw.

”Once they’re through, we’ll get on doing summat about reinforcing the rudder cable, over.”

“Roger.”

Jeppson had done all he could with the first aid kit. When the bandages ran out, a nearby damaged parachute was shredded and provided much needed protection for blistered and oily skin.