Hammond Innes - Air Bridge

I trimmed the engines and banked slowly on to my course, climbing all the time. At 7,000 feet I levelled out clear of the rain clouds in bright starlight and relaxed in my seat. I checked oil pressure and engine revs. Everything was okay. I felt drained of all energy. My eyelids closed for a second, and then I forced them open. It would be so easy to slip into unconsciousness. I fought off the faintness, holding myself against it as one does when one is tight and refusing to go under. I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter to five. By five o’clock I should be approaching Gatow. I was shivering with cold.

Once Else came through into the cockpit to see if I was all right. She looked tired and her eyes seemed very large in the pallor of her face. She held the gun firmly in her hand and her gaze was concentrated on the door to the fuselage as she spoke to me. ‘Is Saeton all right?’ I asked her.

‘Yes.’

‘Has he tried to move?’

‘No. He do not try anything. I think he is dazed by what has happened. Also, he has lost much blood. He is very weak I think.’ She put her hand on my arm. ‘Can you land all right, do you think?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Better get back to your seat. And strap yourself in tight. I’ll be going down in a few minutes.’

She nodded. ‘Good luck, Neil!’

I didn’t say anything and she went back into the fuselage. Below me I could just see the grey fluffy sea that marked the topside of the rain clouds. It was one thing piloting the plane up here in the clear, starlit night. But I had got to go down through that stuff. Somewhere, only a few minutes ahead of me, I had got to go down and contact a single square mile of ground through the impenetrable murk of the rain. The thought of it made me feel sick and I wished now that I had gone north to Lubeck. Maybe the weather would have been better at Lubeck. But I was committed now. It was no good turning back.

As I sat there in the cockpit, I was conscious of a growing sense of panic. To go on and on — that was all I wanted — to go on into infinity, into unconsciousness. Automatically I kept glancing at my watch. Just as automatically I pressed forward on the control column, as my watch came up to five, pushing the nose of the plane down. It was only years of operational training that enabled me to do that, for it was against all reason, against all the instinctive desire of mind and body. It meant action.

The clouds came up to meet me. From a flat sea of grey they became a tenuous, insubstantial drift of mist. Then the stars were blotted out and nothing was visible beyond the pulsating interior of the cockpit. I watched the altimeter dial — 6,000 — 5,500 — 5,000. Through my earphones I was picking up instructions from Gatow Airways to planes reporting over Frohnau: Okay York 315. Channel A-able and call Controller. And then another York was in my headphones reporting number and cargo at twenty miles. York 270. Clear to Beacon. I pressed my A button for automatic radio tuning to Gatow Tower. York 315. Clear to QSY. Channel D-dog and call Gatow director. Channel D-dog. That was Ground Control Approach! Things were bad down there. It meant ceiling zero and driving rain. It meant that I should have to do a controlled approach landing. I’d never done one before. I’d never been talked down in my life. We hadn’t had those sort of aids when I had been flying on Ops. I cleared my throat and pressed my B button.

‘Hallo, Gatow Airways!’ I called. ‘Hallo, Gatow Airways!’

Faint through the earphones came the answering voice from Gatow. ‘Gatow Airways answering. Give your number and position please. Give your number and position please. Over.’ ‘Hallo, Gatow. I have no number. This is Saeton’s Dakota returning from Hollmind. Fraser piloting. I am now levelling out at Angels Five and will give you my position from Frohnau beacon. Can you direct me in please? Over.’

‘Gatow Airways answering. You cannot land at Gatow. I repeat, you cannot land at Gatow. Overshoot and proceed to Wunstorf. Proceed to Wunstorf. Acknowledge please. Over.’ A wave of dizziness caught me and for a moment I thought I was going to black out. Then it had passed. ‘Fraser answering. I must land at Gatow. I am injured. I must land at Gatow.’ I started to tell them what had happened to Tubby and how Saeton was wounded, but they cut me short. ‘Overshoot and proceed to Wunstorf. I repeat: Overshoot and proceed to Wunstorf.’ ‘I cannot fly any farther,’ I cried desperately. ‘Am coming down. Repeat I am coming down.’

There was a pause. Then: ‘Okay, Fraser. Give your position, please.’ I looked quickly down at the instrument panel. The plane was fitted with a Sperry automatic pilot. ‘I am going back now to get M/F bearings on Frohnau and Gatow. Off.’

I switched over to the automatic pilot and went back to the navigator’s desk. I got the M/F bearings and found that my position was almost directly over Spandau. I moved back to the cockpit and in sliding into the pilot’s seat wrenched my arm so that I had to bite back the scream of pain that came to my throat. Half-collapsed over the control column I called Gatow again: ‘Hallo, Gatow. Fraser calling. Am flying Angels Five directly above Spandau. Please direct me. Please direct me. Course now 085 degrees. Please direct me. Over.’

‘Hallo, Fraser. Keep flying your present height and course. I will direct you in a few minutes. Give speed and acknowledge. Over.’ ‘Speed 135,’ I answered. ‘I await your directions. Over.’

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and disconnected the automatic pilot. Waves of nausea swept over me. My mind seemed a blank, unable to concentrate. Through the earphones came the sound of Gatow calling other planes. From the fuselage behind me I heard Saeton’s voice call out, ‘Fraser! Are you in trouble?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I’m all right.’

‘If you want any help…’

But I didn’t trust him. ‘I’m all right,’ I called back. ‘Don’t flap.’ My throat felt dry. My tongue was like a piece of coarse flannel. I wanted to vomit.

‘ Hallo, Fraser. Gatow Airways calling Fraser. Can you hear me? Over.’ ‘Fraser answering. I hear you.’ My voice sounded weak and hoarse. Oh God! I breathed. Let’s get this over. ‘GCA think they have located you. Channel D-dog and call Director.’ ‘Roger, Gatow.’ I pressed my D button, my hand trembling and damp with sweat. ‘Hallo, Gatow Director. Fraser calling Gatow Director.’

A new voice, much clearer, sounded in my earphones. ‘Turn 180 degrees, Fraser. Turn 180 degrees.’ ‘Roger, Director.’ I braced myself for the effort and shifted the control column, giving right rudder at the same time. The movement brought the sweat cold on my forehead again. I should never make it. I felt I just couldn’t make it. The control column was heavy as lead. To work the rudder brought my shoulder in contact with the back of the seat. Pain seared through my neck and up into my head as I completed the turn and straightened out. God! This was going to be hell.

‘Thank you, Fraser,’ came the voice of the Director of Controlled Approach. ‘7 have now identified you. New course. Left on to 245 degrees and reduce height to 3,000. Acknowledge.’ ‘Roger.’ I turned the plane on to its new course, my senses strained to catch the director’s voice. I felt sick with the strain. If only I had done one of these landings before! A sheet of water lashed against the windshield. The plane bucketed violently, wrenching at my shoulder as I moved to maintain course, the control column thrust forward, my eyes fixed on the altimeter dial and the luminous circle of the compass where the needle hovered at 245.