by James Blatch
“Sir Alan says RAF West Porton is cloaked by an ‘unhealthy amount of secrecy’ and he ‘wishes to see a broom swept through the organisation’.
“Sir Alan is expected to question the secretary of state for defence at 2.30PM.
“The Daily Telegraph understands one of the dead from last week’s crash was the commanding officer of a previously unknown unit, referred to as RAF-TFU. Wing Commander Mark Kilton DFC was laid to rest in Amesbury on Thursday.”
Susie rested the paper on her lap.
Mary pondered the reform of West Porton, one week too late.
A shaft of sunlight streamed into the room, falling on Mary’s face. She closed her eyes and tried to enjoy its warmth.
“I’m surprised it’s taken this long to appear in the press,” said Susie. “I thought there might be some reporters at the funeral.”
Mary kept her eyes closed. “It was strange, wasn’t it? The funeral. So much unsaid.”
“Isn’t that always the way at these things?” Susie said. “They do seem adept at not saying things, these men. God knows it may have turned out differently if they’d only had a few more conversations, early on.”
With her eyes closed and the sun warming her face, Mary listened to the remnants of the dawn chorus. The blackbirds were always the last to finish their song.
An unfamiliar sound.
A low murmur.
Her eyes flicked open as she swung off the chair.
Susie was already standing at the hospital bed.
“Was that him?” Mary asked.
“Yes, he moved,” said Susie. “I’ll get the doctor.”
Susie left the room and Mary cupped her hand on the side of Rob’s face, careful to avoid the stitches that ran from his chin.
He moaned again and turned his head a millimetre, but it was a millimetre more than she had seen him move since he had been scraped off the side of that hill.
“Can you hear me?”
For a while, nothing happened. Then his head turned a fraction more.
A moment later, Robert May opened his eyes.
34
Monday 5th September
Two Months Later
Rob yawned at the breakfast table.
“I told you we’d set the alarm too early,” Mary said. “I mean, 5AM. It’s for the birds.”
Rob raised another spoonful of cereal to his mouth. He was becoming good with his left hand.
“You try getting ready for work with an ankle and arm in plaster.”
She leaned across the table, placed her hand on his white cast and kissed him on the cheek.
“That sounds good, doesn’t it?”
“It’s taken a long time.”
“Getting you out of that blasted hospital was the best thing we did.”
Mary cleared a couple of bowls from the table and rinsed them at the sink. “Are you nervous?”
“Going back to TFU? Not really. It’s not like I haven’t seen Jock and Red already.” He manoeuvred himself from under the table. Reaching for his crutch, he hauled himself upright. “I know it’s changed. That’s the main thing.”
Mary turned to him. “And what about flying?”
Rob looked at his two limbs in plaster and laughed. “I don’t think I’ll be on the roster today.”
“You know what I mean,” she said and playfully flicked some soap bubbles at him. “Do you still want to do it?”
Rob reached for his second crutch and hobbled out of the kitchen. “Bloody right I do.”
Outside, in the last days of an English summer, Rob climbed into the passenger side of Millie’s old Rover. He’d tried getting into the Austin Healey, but his inflexible plastered leg was having none of it. Georgina, back in her married quarter for ‘as long as she needed’ was pleased with the swap, and Rob had to admit she suited his little sports car.
Mary climbed into the driver’s seat.
“No driving, no flying,” he said. “It’s going to be a long winter.”
“On the other hand, you’re alive, Mr May.”
He smiled at the love of his life and leaned over to whisper in her ear. “I love you, Mary May.”
She laughed. “So you keep telling me.”
“Sorry,” he said, in mock protest.
“That’s OK. You can tell me again.”
She backed out and they set off toward West Porton. Minutes later, they arrived at the barrier which was rising as they approached.
“Good morning, Mrs May, Flight Lieutenant May. Are you happy you know where you’re going?”
Mary told the guard that she knew the way to TFU and they carried on into the station.
“Doesn’t feel like entering a prison anymore,” Rob said.
As they approached the edge of the airfield and the TFU buildings, Rob noticed one or two of his colleagues walking in. He was hoping to arrive early, ahead of everyone else, but it looked like he was the last.
They parked. Mary quickly made her way around the outside of the car. But as he went to open the door, Rob found it being opened for him by somebody else.
“Good morning, Flight Lieutenant. It’s good to have you back.”
Wing Commander Jock MacLeish greeted him with a beaming smile.
“Thank you, sir,” Rob replied to his new commanding officer.
With Jock and Mary’s help, he pulled himself upright and tucked the crutch under his arm.
They made their way to the double doors of TFU.
“I hoped we’d be the first here,” Rob said, again alarmed at the busy car park.
“No chance of that, Robert.”
Jock pushed open the door to the planning room.
“Welcome back, Rob.” Red Brunson was the first to greet him.
“Welcome back,” said the next man, and the man after that.
Each officer stood by the planning desk made the effort to personally greet him.
The admin team, including Jean and a group of young corporals—men and women—who Rob didn’t know were lined up on the way to the CO’s office.
“Welcome back, sir,” each one said as he passed.
Rob finally made it to the office. Jock closed the door behind him.
“So, this is your office now?”
“Certainly is,” Jock said.
“Feels odd, doesn’t it?” Rob looked around at the room that was once Mark Kilton’s lair.
“I’m used to it now. We’re working hard to move on.”
“It feels different,” Rob said. “Just walking in here.”
Jock took his seat behind the desk. “Good. We nearly lost TFU, but a few of us argued it still has a role. It just needs to do things… differently. Boscombe oversee us now. Projects are ultimately signed off by them when they’re happy. We’re free to concentrate on the flying, testing and evaluating. Leave the politics to the others.”
“Sounds ideal.”
MacLeish turned serious as he pulled an A4 report out of a desk drawer.
“How was the Board interview?”
“I couldn’t tell them much. I remembered snatches of it but… nothing solid.”
MacLeish nodded. “They did their best to piece it all together.” He opened the report. “You told them you were low, very low, and that you think Kilton and Stafford swapped places?”
“Yes, it’s a strange, cloudy memory. Quite surreal, actually, but I can see Kilton unstrapping Stafford.”
“They think you were ejected,” MacLeish said, then seemed to study him for a reaction.
It took Rob a second to understand the meaning of the sentence. “I was ejected? I didn’t choose to eject?”
MacLeish shook his head. “It’s a best guess, but Kilton had a badly fractured right arm and smashed up hand. The best theory they’ve got is that he was withdrawing it just as your seat fired and it suffered a glancing blow. It would have been very nasty for him. As for your route out of the aircraft, you appear to have missed the summit of a hill, floated for a bit under the canopy, and th
en bounced your way down on the other side. Bit of a mess when they found you, but you don’t need me to tell you that.”
“Why didn’t Kilton eject?”
“They can’t be sure, but they think a combination of his excruciating injury which took one arm completely out of action and the fact that as you ejected, it pushed the nose down from what was already a treetop-skimming height. As you know, you were found less than a mile from the crash site.” MacLeish paused for a second before adding, “It’s not in the report, but the chairman of the BOI did wonder about Mark’s mental state. I think we all know he carried some scars from the war.”
“And poor old Ewan Stafford?”
“A hapless onlooker who paid the price for getting into bed with Kilton.” MacLeish closed the report. “Of course what’s also not in here, and I doubt will ever be in any official capacity, is the fact that a young technician at DF Blackton has confirmed that Stafford was aware of the flaws of Guiding Light and he actively covered it up. We have to assume Kilton was in on this, rather than a victim of Stafford’s scheming, as it explains his extreme behaviour toward Brian Hill, Millie and then you.”
“All the same, quite a price to pay.”
MacLeish tapped the desk idly with his fingers. “The technician told us they calculated the odds of causing a crash if Guiding Light went into service with its gremlin. They worked out, with future crewing, it would lead to as many as 14.25 aircrew deaths a year. And yet these men were prepared to roll it out and hope for the best.”
A flash of a conversation on board the Vulcan came back to Rob. “I remember confronting him with the figure Millie had deduced. 8.75. So the real figure was even higher?”
“It would seem so.” MacLeish handed over a copy of the report.
Rob picked it up, it was just a few pages on thin white paper marked Her Majesty's Stationery Office.
“I’ll let you read it in your own time. A censored summary will be released more widely. But I’d draw your attention to the recommendations at the end of that version. A thorough system for examining any reported deficiency or concern, regardless of the rank or position of the person raising it. And a requirement that every project is signed off by every team member, again regardless of rank. We thought about calling it the May Check.” He smiled.
“How about the Milford Agreement?” Rob said.
MacLeish nodded. “That would work.”
Rob opened the first page of the report. It was perfunctory, to say the least. His eyes caught the crew list.
Flt Lt Robert May (Captain) – Seriously injured
Wg Cdr Mark Kilton – Deceased
Mr Ewan Stafford – Deceased
He thought about Kilton, the larger than life character who had steered him and dominated him for so long.
“You know Millie told me he used to be kind,” Rob said.
“Who?”
“Kilton. Back in the war. They worked together at Tangmere. Millie even said he was shy, but always polite and unassuming. Hard to imagine.”
“The war changed many people, Rob.”
“He went on to Malta, then took part in D-Day and the aftermath. I guess there wasn’t much kindness left by the end of that.”
“Are you suggesting he somehow wasn’t responsible for his own actions? That his death on a Welsh hillside in 1966 was just another victim of the war?”
Rob shrugged. “I don’t know. But we’re shaped by our experiences, aren’t we?”
“We are, Robert. We are. And how has this experience shaped you?”
“I’ve made a few vows, that’s for sure. A man in plaster has a lot of time lying on a bed to think.”
Jock studied him for a moment. “Good.”
For the rest of the day, he discussed his duties and Jock gave him an initial plan for getting him back in the air, once the plaster could be removed.
“I can’t wait, boss,” Rob said, as he looked at the programme.
“And I can’t wait to sit alongside you, Rob.”
At the end of the working day, or 3.45PM to be more accurate, the men helped Rob down to the mess bar.
It didn’t take long before he felt decidedly squiffy, having fallen out of practice.
He looked at the clock above the bar, expecting it to be nearly 10PM, only to find it was 6.30PM.
The new TFU boss got up to replenish glasses.
“Just one more for me,” Rob announced to mock jeers.
Red nipped out to the hall and called Mary to pick him up, assuring her they were having just one more.
MacLeish came back with seven tumblers of whisky.
He placed them on the table in front of the six men.
“To absent friends,” Jock whispered in his soft Scottish accent.
It took a moment before Rob noticed the empty chair with a glass of scotch in front of it.
The End.
Afterword
Released under the UK Government’s ‘Thirty-Year Rule’ - would you like to read the official Board of Inquiry summaries for the two Vulcan crashes in this story?
Head to jamesblatch.com/thefinalflight
For my mother and father, who lived the lives that inspired this book.
Coming soon…
The follow-up book to The Final Flight is set three years earlier at Edwards Air Force Base in California, summer 1963.
Young test pilot, Red Brunson, is handed the most prestigious task of his brief career, to pilot a secret hypersonic aircraft capable of releasing a missile into space.
Alongside him is a kid from a Mississippi backwater, who just happens to be a genius pilot-engineer.
But someone on the project has a dark secret and they’re planning to reveal it at the worst possible time.
Red’s on/off girlfriend Sarah is the first to smell trouble. But she uncovers the truth a few minutes too late.
At the the centre of a shocking betrayal, the only redemption open to Red is a daring mission that will surely cost him his life?
To make sure you are the first to learn the release date, sign up for my newsletter at:
www.jamesblatch.com/thefinalflight
Acknowledgments
HUNTINGDON,
Spring 2021
Novel writing may look like a solitary career, and perhaps for some it is. But The Final Flight felt like a collaborative effort to me. It involved a cast of thousands, in fact, as I shared my writing journey with the author community. The book also benefitted greatly from the specific help of several writing professionals, who skilfully equipped me with the means to produce a coherent story and hopefully, an entertaining read.
Mark Dawson, my business partner and friend, encouraged me to blow the dust off the draft manuscript I wrote back in 2010 as a November novel writing challenge. He gently and not-so-gently encouraged me to complete the project over the next few years. I am grateful for every nudge and occasional kick up the backside.
Jennie Nash was the person who made me confront the essential question of why I needed to tell this story. The answer surprised even me. It was deeply personal, but once identified, the writing process had the focus it needed. Jennie is a hugely experienced book editor based in LA. I am lucky to have had her on my side.
Lizette Clark steered me through the long form version of the book and it was Andrew Lowe, here in the UK, who helped me over the line.
Andrew is another experienced editor I am lucky to have worked with. He helped me turn a wordy and clunky manuscript into a much tighter and focused novel, while keeping those themes I identified with Jennie, central to every chapter.
Finally, on the writing front, my many writing friends who have cajoled, encouraged and occasionally pushed a little harder to ensure this book made it into the world. A few friends kindly read early versions and gave me the benefit of their thoughts. Thank you John C, Bob and Nathan in particular. I also received some valuable last minute help with the nitty task of proofreading. Thank you Paul Eddleston, Tracey Pedersen and Tom Feltham.
It is a wonderful time to be a writer, thanks to the changes in publishing, and I’m lucky to be at the centre of this quiet revolution.
For the story itself, I am grateful to the many former Royal Air Force men and women who gave me their time and thoughts as I worked to recreate an environment that was, a little before my time.
Foremost is my father. A test pilot at Boscombe Down, 1960-1966. Squadron Leader John R. Blatch, AFC, flew the Vulcan, Canberra, Hunter, Javelin and many, many others during his time and it was a luxury having him at the end of the phone to answer questions such as whether Vulcan pilots could isolate the intercom from the rear-crew, how the autopilot cancel worked and which pubs did the officers drink in?
Alas, my mother will never read this book. We lost her on May 31st, 2005. She was an air traffic controller at Boscombe when she met my father. She enjoys a cameo in this book, but you can find her bright and unmistakable character on the pages that involve Georgina and Mary.
Ray Cotton was a test pilot colleague of my fathers at Boscombe and I am very grateful for an hour I spent on the phone picking his brains about the day-to-day operations. It was Ray who told me of the drinking culture. So bad at one point that the Station Commander ordered the bar closed at lunchtimes… He also told me of the times they switched off the oxygen in the V-Bombers and had an in-flight smoke. Times have changed.
Besides my father and Ray, many others have helped with the authenticity aspect of the book, including the operators of the preserved Vulcan XH558. I spent a highly informative afternoon at Robin Hood Airport (formerly RAF Finningley), learning how to operate and navigate a Vulcan bomber to its target in deepest Russia.
I’d also like to thank the ever helpful and witty former military aircrew who inhabit the PPRUNE online forum, for their patient answers to my questions.
