by Colin Gee
“Roger, Art. Help’s on its way, out.”
Nelleson and Blockridge were already in the tube, moving back to the rear compartment, Loveless having assumed the second pilot’s seat, purely to have another set of hands on the controls.
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.
[Author’s note – It is without a doubt that Chief Petty Officer Kenzo Nobunaga took off in Ashara’s aircraft, in the full knowledge that it had virtually no ammunition on board, such was the effect of US bombing missions on Japan’s munitions and distribution network. I have therefore written of his death and ramming of ‘Miss Merlene’ as a deliberate suicidal act.
His body was recovered two days later and, despite the attention of ravenous sea dwellers, revealed the three wounds I have written of.]
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 was
h 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.’
1113 hrs, Wednesday, 29th May, 1946, on approach to Futenma Airfield, Okinawa.
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.
