Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (9 page)

“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.

The metalwork looked like something from a Laurel and Hardy film, a jury rig seemingly lacking rhyme or reason, but Blockridge was satisfied that it would hold and see them home.

‘Probably.’

Wire and tape did its best to hold things in place in case of a reverse in the stresses.

Nelleson had worked with pliers, screwdrivers, and hacksaw, creating a tensioned support that took up the strain on either side of the damaged section on the green control wire.

At his behest, Crail started slow rudder movements, designed to see the parameters of movement in the ‘repair’.

“Pilot, co-pilot. Came close to stop on right rudder. Left rudder all fine, over.”

“Roger. Will repeat rudder. Shout out when at stop, over.”

“Roger.”

‘Miss Merlene’ moved gently in response as three pair of eyes watched the rudder cable close on the stop.

“Mark!”

In the glasshouse, Crail made a grease pen mark on the boss of his stick, giving him a rough reminder of where he could go to, or more importantly, not go beyond.

‘Should be enough… I hope…’

The three men in the radar compartment decided on more work, and teased and cut a little more, to give some more right rudder if it was needed.

Crail re-marked the boss.

Nelleson returned to resume his co-pilot role, leaving Blockridge and Hanebury to ride it out in the damaged compartment.

The two spent their time equally between monitoring the cable and strut work, the compression fold in the fuselage, and creating more struts, just in case.

It was Art Hanebury who realised that the lower fuselage had its own major problems.

There was daylight where daylight should not be.

The skin had split in three places, an obvious but previously undetected opposite reaction to the compression issues.

“Anything you can do, Art, over?”

“Nothing except pray, JP, over.”

“Roger, out.”

‘Prayer will have to do.’

The Mustangs had long since left their charges to their own devices, and the air now contained only a CAP of three Shooting Star jet fighters, and the two B-29s.

‘Necessary Evil’ would normally have landed first but this was not a normal time.

Given the lack of manoeuvrability and damage to ‘Miss Merlene’, as well as the proximity of Kadena, the damaged bird was first to land

On the airstrip’s perimeter, crowds of Marines, Army personnel, and Sailors gathered to watch the show, the genuinely curious mixing with those of more ghoulish nature, all having been drawn by tannoyed announcements and the frantic deployments of meat wagons and fire trucks.

“Necessary Evil’ did a low pass, gathering vital information to pass on to the wounded ‘Miss Merlene’.

“Dimples-nine-one, received. Dimples-nine-eight, over and out.”

Jones had opened the radio to the intercom so that Crail could get the information direct from ‘Necessary Evil’.

What he heard was encouraging and he continued his descent with increased confidence.

The other B-29 circled lazily above as ‘Miss Merlene’ deployed her undercarriage.

An F4U Corsair, scrambled from Futenma to act as an observation plane, slipped in closer to inspect the landing gear.

“Dimples-nine-eight, Roughrider-five-one. Gear is down, starboard inner tyre appears deflated, over.”

Burnett’s board and Crail’s display both showed that the gear was locked.

Crail spoke briefly on the intercom and Jones relayed his words.

“Roughrider-five-one, Dimples-nine-eight, confirm only one deflation on starboard gear, over.”

The Corsair came in closer, level with the gash in ‘Miss Merlene’s’ starboard side, and close enough to get a really good look at the two starboard wheels.

As he did so, Blockridge already had his head out, making his own assessment.

“Dimples-nine-eight, Roughrider-five-one, confirm, inner tyre definitely damaged and appears deflated. Outer tyre appears undamaged and to pressure, over.”

“Roger, Roughrider-five-one, out.”

Crail thumbed his mike.

“Remember, we’re a cut-down Silverbird with weight already shed, boys. I’m going for a standard landing. I’ll just protect the starboard gear some. Standby for landing. Merlene’ll get us home, Boys. Good luck.”

The weary B-29 steadily ate up the remaining yards, Crail and Nelleson gently nursing the wounded ‘Miss Merlene’, throttles set, flaps set, descending as if on a formal landing exercise with the Squadron commander stood behind them, assessing their technical abilities.

Blockridge’s report was in agreement with that of the fighter jock, and the two pilots had already agreed a way to mollycoddle the starboard gear.

Both men were sweating.

In fact, everyone was sweating, and not because of the temperature in the aircraft.

The B-29 slid over the top of the base security fence, the control tower operative’s voice a constant on their ears.

“Here we go, George.”

The left gear touched and then decided to part company with Mother Earth once more.

No words were spoken.

The assembly caught the runway a second time, and Nelleson eased back on the throttles.

Crail held the right wing up as the airspeed started to disappear.

He gently dropped the damaged wheel set down, and the single inflated tyre kissed the ground beneath.

The ‘feel’ of the aircraft was good, but a lot of the nine thousand feet had already been consumed in the extended manoeuvre.

‘Now then, sweet Merlene, look after us all, baby.’

Crail let the assembly take the full weight.

Not one breath was taken from glasshouse to radar position.

‘You beautiful girl!’

“OK, let’s stop the airplane!”

Power was put on full to the three remaining engines, and reverse pitch applied to the propellers.

Both men put pressure on the brakes, increasing it slowly as they grew more confident in the starboard undercarriage.

Behind them, a posse of emergency vehicles jockeyed for position, their engines screaming as they fell behind the fast-moving aircraft.

The audience, which had swollen to over two thousand, shouted, clapped, whistled, prayed, or combinations of all of those, as the stricken bird rolled down the runway towards the rapidly approaching point where runway became unstable and uneven ground.

The rear section, propped by the efforts of her crew, suddenly had a different set of forces act upon her tortured frames.

Firstly, many of the hand-manufactured struts fell out, no longer held in place by pressure, as physics decided to reverse its forces, with compression now primary on the underside, swapping itself with tension, now applied to the upper surfaces, tension which was sufficient to catastrophically open up the fault line that had developed in flight.

In turn, the stressed underside, started to detach, as frame supports and skin gave up the unequal struggle.

The tailskid had been deployed, and it was this modest metal support that held the tail in place whilst the fuselage decided whether it would stay intact, or come apart.

In the end, the skid failed and the tail section partially fell away.

In the cockpit, whilst the speed was no longer a problem, the additional drag of the tail assisting in decelerating the aircraft, ‘Miss Merlene’ was being dragged off course, as the starboard side of the rear end acted on the runway, creating an anchor effect.

Part of the metalled runway matting snagged and increased the forces dragging the B-29 off course.

The interlocking Marsden Matting started to pull up off the ground in one large bending piece.

The forward momentum was beaten by the grip of the runway metal, and the tail section tore off in stages, as each frame yielded up its hold.

No one up front heard the screams behind them.

‘Miss Merlene’ was suddenly free.

Too late to prevent the starboard gear running off the runway and into the softer ground.

Too late to prevent the ground taking the damaged gear in its embrace.

Too late to prevent the undercarriage straining in its mount and becoming detached.

The right wing cut into the soft ground, slewing the B-29 even more to the right.

The port undercarriage met with the yielding ground and struggled to remain intact, the wheels clogging as the earth invaded and clung.

Despite the futility of it all, Crail and Nelleson continued to try to steer, gripping their control columns, and feeling every hump and bump as the aircraft moved inexorably on towards…

… towards men who suddenly realised their predicament, and for whom an exercise in curiosity suddenly became a race for survival.

The observers ran for their lives as ‘Miss Merlene’ came closer, her port undercarriage trying hard to stay intact under the colossal strain.

The right wing started to disintegrate as the starboard outer engine caught the ground and was ripped off, turning the B-29 more to the right.

By a miracle, the left wingtip swept over the top of a number of huts which, although unoccupied at the time, would have added to the risks for ‘Miss Merlene’s’ crew.

Through the glasshouse, Loveless observed the approaching fuel bowser and fuelling station, the pair sat inevitably in the area through which the Superfortress would pass.

He gritted his teeth, and a slow moan escaped his mouth as the aircraft took the shortest possible route towards…

… towards…

With a lurch, Dimples-nine-eight came to a halt less than four feet from the bowser, the nose stove in but not breached, the soft earth surrounding it like a rolled comfort blanket.

“Crew out! Crew out!”

Pilots and flight engineers switched off everything and undid their harnesses, as the others rightly broke world records in their haste to get outside of the death trap, the smell of aviation spirit heavy in the air already.

Crail stood back as Fletcher dragged the unconscious Jones to the hatch and passed him out to the waiting Nelleson and Loveless.

Jeppson, bleeding heavily from a head wound, stumbled past, disorientated by the crash-landing and the blood in his eyes. Crail grabbed him and guided him to safety, the heavy fuel fumes already causing his brain to ache.

He dropped to the ground, ignoring the momentary pain, and urged the men to move away from ‘Miss Merlene’.

Faithful to the last, the aircraft did not catch fire, and soon the crew were overwhelmed with rescuers of all shapes and sizes.

Ambulances opened their doors and Crail counted the boys in one by one, sharing hugs and handshakes with each and every man.

When all but he and Nelleson were loaded up, Crail saw what had happened to his aircraft, appreciating for the first time how lucky they had all been.

But there was something else that suddenly exercised him, and he ran as best as his sprained ankle allowed, closely followed by his co-pilot, moving towards the gaping hole that used to have a tail attached.

“Oh my lord!”

Nelleson shared the sentiment, the absence of either man quite apparent.

Both of them turned to look back down the runway, barely acknowledging the low run of ‘Necessary Evil’, a gentle wing waggle showing their relief at the incredible landing.

The tail section lay virtually upright, no more than a degree or two out of the vertical.

Three vehicles were in position, and both men could see rescuers moving slowly, unhurried, and lacking in urgency.

A USMC jeep screeched to a halt.

“You two’s wanna see the rest of your plane?”

No second invitation was needed, and the pilots hopped aboard as the jeep sped off towards the other bit of ‘Miss Merlene’.

The reason for the lack of urgency was soon apparent.

Blockridge was sat smoking a huge cigar, courtesy of a US infantry officer who, despite still being out of breath from his ‘olympic’ run to assist, had found time to produce a Cuban to celebrate the incredible survival of the two airmen.

A navy corpsman was working on Blockridge’s broken left arm, fussing around and gently scolding whenever the Staff Sergeant moved even slightly.

Hanebury, a non-smoker, was coughing his way through his first Lucky Strike, still mentally examining his body for missing pieces and surprisingly coming up with negative results.

Both men were surrounded by rescuers who wanted nothing more than to shake their hand, touch their uniforms, or do anything to acquire a modicum of the luck that had preserved them.

The USMC jeep came to a halt, discharging Crail and Nelleson, who immediately set about burrowing through the crowd.

The two NCOs stood and gave formal salutes, which were returned by the two pilots. All observed by a mixture of Army, Navy, and Marine personnel who now had absolute confirmation that all airmen were completely gaga.

An Army Air Force Colonel arrived and ordered the four survivors into an ambulance, which immediately sped off to the sick bay, where the crew of ‘Miss Merlene’ were reunited.