Cold War

Bruce grinned at him. “I don’t know why you look so surprised. What could be more fun than working twelve-hour days in wet shoes and eating on the run?”

Their shoes were wet, and they would have been working closer to fourteen hours by the time they got back to Hamburg, but Bruce didn’t sound the least bit sarcastic. Their eyes met, and they exchanged a smile. They were exactly where they wanted to be: in the cockpit of a powerful aircraft doing useful work. “Checklist?” Bruce asked, and they got on with it.

Their Halifax was practically brand new, and all four engines sprang eagerly to life. Richard reported readings in the green across the board. Flaps, rudder, and ailerons responded smoothly. However, the airframe was vibrating as rain squalls lashed diagonally across the windscreen. The wipers were all but useless. It was going to be a rough flight.

Kit used a torch to signal to the groundcrew to remove the chocks. Instantly, he felt an unnatural wobbliness through the control column. The combination of wind and wet pavement reduced the empty aircraft’s hold on the ground. With a glance over at Bruce, he asked, “Are you OK flying in this?” While waiting for the bureaucracy to get sorted out, Kit had taken Bruce up for several long and vigorous training flights. He had also allowed Bruce to fly all the return flights, but his total hours on heavy aircraft were still fewer than 30.

“Sure,” Bruce answered without looking at him. He kept his eyes on the Land Rover whose flashing yellow lights were leading them to the head of the runway.

Over the radio, Kit heard the tower reporting “The wind has veered northwest. Gusting up to 60 miles per hour.” That meant it would be pushing them to port during take-off. “You’re going to need extra starboard rudder,” Kit warned Bruce.

Bruce nodded. Kit felt Richard turn to look over his shoulder at the two pilots, but Kit did not take his eyes off the windscreen. Ahead of them, a York turned onto the runway and stood shaking in the gale for several seconds before it started to roll forward. It swerved and weaved its way down the runway and took off dragging one wing a little before banking hard to starboard.

AFI received permission from the tower to turn onto the runway. Once lined up, Bruce ran up the engines against the brakes. “You’re going to need both hands on the control column,” Kit told him. “I’ll handle the throttles.”

Bruce nodded and released the brakes. As they rolled forward, Bruce’s hands clasped the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Because of the windspeed, lift developed sooner than normal as they accelerated, reducing their hold on the ground. The Halifax wanted to slide off the tarmac, and Bruce was fighting hard to hold them on the runway, sweat pouring down his face. “Airspeed?” Kit called to Richard.

“100, 105, 110—”

“Keep the nose down!” Kit ordered Bruce as he gave the old bomber more power. “Hold her down and straight. We need more speed.”

“130, 140—”

The Halifax was veering to the left despite Bruce’s efforts to keep the nose pointed at the end of the runway. If they went off the runway at this speed they’d total the aircraft and would be lucky to walk away from it. “Now!” Kit ordered as he slammed the throttles through the safety wire and called to Richard for “full flaps.” Bruce hauled the nose up, but for a moment they seemed to hang uncertainly in the air. The engines screamed in protest, the rain lashed them, the gale pushed them sideways, and the trees dead ahead grinned at them. Then the Halifax seemed to recover her courage and started to lift them up and over the trees. “Ease back on the flaps,” Kit ordered.

“Flaps 15,” Richard answered, cool as a cucumber.

Kit checked the rpms and reduced them to 2600 from the more than 3000 he had just used to get them airborne. He glanced sidelong at Bruce, who was banking them to the north gently, sweat streaming down the side of his face. “All right?”

“I’m fine,” he insisted stubbornly without looking at Kit.

They were in the murk now. Visibility nil. “What’s the heading for Spandau beacon, navigator?”

“350, Skipper,” Nigel answered promptly, and Bruce turned onto the designated course.

“Flaps 10,” Kit ordered, watching the altimeter.

As they steadied on their course, they passed through the eye of the wind. Beyond, the squalls smashed into them from port rather than starboard. They passed over the Spandau beacon at 3,000 feet and continued climbing towards Frohnau. The storm was blowing hard almost directly on their beam. Sporadically, short showers of hail rattled the fuselage.

Kit checked the altitude; they had just passed 4,800 feet. When he looked up again, he was startled to see a star straight ahead of them. A split second later, he realised it wasn’t a star but the tail light of another aircraft — and they were closing on it rapidly. There was no time to give an order. Kit grabbed the controls and pushed the nose down as hard as in any corkscrew of his operational career. Bruce yelped in shock and even Richard exclaimed something. A split-second later, the sky was blotted out by the oil-stained belly of another aircraft. Instinctively, both Kit and Bruce cringed in their seats and Richard ducked his head. Kit held his breath, waiting for the sound of their antenna being torn off. It didn’t come. They were in the clear again.

Richard straightened and turned to look back along the fuselage. “A Dakota! Flying tangential to the flight path.”

“Can you see any squadron letters?” Kit asked.

“No. No roundels. Stars. I can’t read the ID numbers.”

American aircraft did not carry large squadron IDs, only the aircraft numbers painted on their tails.

Terry called from the lower deck, “Is everything all right up there?”

“We just avoided a collision,” Kit answered. “Navigator, give me a fix as soon as you can to verify our position and course.”

“Yes, sir!” Nigel answered smartly.

“Where did it come from?” Bruce asked, his voice still shaky.

“He was probably blown off course by the gale,” Kit answered, adding, “The poor bastards have no navigators on board.” Turning the controls over to Bruce again, he reached for the radio. “AFI-H calling Berlin Air Safety Centre. We just had a near miss with a Dakota flying at 5,000 feet on a tangential course.” Th