by Vic Robbie
The weather was deteriorating fast. The cloud closed in and the wind was battering them and causing the plane to pitch and roll as if it were leaping from current to current.
‘Don’t worry.’ Hawkins caught his anxious look. ‘At least if we ditch we can float.’ And he laughed, unfazed at the prospect of being in a plane floating on gigantic waves.
‘Coffee?’
Ben looked around in surprise almost expecting a hostess in a chic uniform to appear. Hawkins reached down by his seat and lifted up a leather briefcase. Taking out a Thermos flask, he poured the dark brown steaming liquid into the cup and offered it to him. ‘Helps keep me awake on these long trips.’
He drank it down, savouring its warmth and taste and it helped to sharpen his concentration. Draining it to the last drop, he handed it back to Hawkins who rubbed it with his elbow before filling it again all the while keeping control with his knees.
‘I suppose you’re a secret agent?’ asked Hawkins.
The question surprised him.
‘Good God, no,’ he said, realising banking might sound mundane to a young man who put his life on the line every day. ‘I’m a writer, a bit more of a sedate profession.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Hawkins. ‘It sounds pretty dangerous to me. The Nazis burned a whole load of books before the war, even Ernest Hemingway’s.’
‘Yes, it’s bad enough when the critics have a go at you, but when they burn your books, that’s serious.’
They both laughed without conviction and fell into an uneasy silence as if all topics of conversation had been exhausted.
Visibility was now no more than about thirty yards.
It came at them like an angry hornet flashing past so close the whole plane shook and juddered in its slipstream.
‘What in hell was that?’ he shouted turning to the pilot.
‘Just missed us, went straight over the top.’
‘One of theirs?’
‘Didn’t get a proper look; let’s hope it was one of ours.’
In a break in the cloud, he saw it banking towards them with the unmistakable Iron Cross on its battleship-grey fuselage and the swastika on its tail. The pilot’s face turned towards them as it levelled out and he saw the flashes of its twin cannons mounted in the wings. At first there was a clattering rat-a-tat-tat as if being bombarded by pebbles. The windscreen cracked and he heard the bullets ploughing into the fuselage and coming straight through the fabric of the plane and ricocheting around the cabin followed by the stench of exploding shells.
Again, it passed close by with another whoosh of air.
Hawkins whooped like a schoolboy train-spotter. ‘Did you see it? What a beauty! It’s their new Focke-Wulf; the plane they reckon will win the war for them.’
Hawkins pushed down on the controls. ‘No chance of outrunning it. It’ll do more than 400 while this crate will just about get to 195. I’m going to drop back down into the cloud. It’s our only hope. Be careful, those shells will come straight through us.’
The Catalina dipped like a rollercoaster and banked hard right until the cloud wrapped around them and the ocean appeared so close he felt he could touch it. As visibility was now almost zero, an added danger was a collision and he peered into the murk and listened for any sound of the attacker. Again it was upon them in a flash and the chatter of its cannons beat out a tattoo on the body of the plane.
With a gasp, Hawkins gripped his side and made a low, gurgling noise deep in his throat. Falling forward onto the controls, he sent the plane into a steep dive. Ben grabbed his jacket and dragged him back while pulling on the wheel to level out. The pilot’s head was lolling on his shoulders and his eyes were in the top of his head.
He thought Hawkins was dead until the pilot spluttered: ‘Been hit.’
Hawkins coughed and winced with the pain of the effort. ‘First aid box. Quick!’
He rooted around finding the box and brought it to the pilot.
‘Brandy,’ Hawkins ordered nodding at the box and when he opened it he found a bottle and held it to the pilot’s lips.
‘More,’ he insisted and Ben kept it to his lips. Hawkins coughed in pain several times and it was like a death rattle although it must have done him some good because he moved forward and peered through the windscreen.
‘Seem to have lost him.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘Let’s go home.’
A frightened Alena, holding a handkerchief to her nose and mouth to combat the fumes, popped her head into the cockpit. ‘Are you both okay?’
He nodded towards Hawkins and she saw the blood staining the side of his flying jacket and together they helped him into the co-pilot’s seat aware by his cries the slightest movement was causing him severe pain.
With Hawkins giving him clipped commands, Ben managed to keep the plane steady. ‘Just like a car, mate, turn the steering wheel clockwise or anti-clockwise in coordination with the rudder pedals to turn and stay level.’
Taking great care, Alena stripped him of his jacket and tore away his shirt. The sight of the gaping wound caused her to turn away so the pilot wouldn’t see her reaction, but he saw her hand go to her mouth and she looked as if she might faint.
‘Bad, eh?’ Hawkins made a gurgling sound in the back of his throat. ‘Don’t worry. Got to get home. Hot date.’
They flew on through the ever-darkening day, Ben clutching the controls with a grip, not even a bear could wrestle from him. And Hawkins, now able to feed himself from the bottle, still giving instructions and slipping in and out of consciousness.
72
ALENA kept ministering to hawkins’ needs. she’d managed to bandage his wound and it helped stem the flow of blood although not even the brandy could dull his pain. The periods of Hawkins’ unconsciousness were gradually increasing. Yet as soon as the bottle started to slip from his grasp he came to and gripped it all the tighter.
Ben kept asking her for updates on the pilot’s condition not daring to avert his gaze from the flickering dials in front of him, fearing if he did they might lose altitude or wander off course. There was little they could do but let Hawkins sleep. He knew he wouldn’t be able to land the plane at Poole without the pilot’s help and while they didn’t want to disturb him, they would have to when the time came.
The cloud was no longer as heavy, just enough to give them cover and they flew on, the monotonous drone and continual rising and falling almost inducing sleep. And he understood why Hawkins carried coffee in his briefcase. Just when he might have lost concentration a gust of wind would threaten to blow them off course and he had to make a slight adjustment and keep an eye on the altimeter. His grip on the wheel was so intense his knuckles were now white and the concentration was burning his eyes. Although the cold in the cockpit was numbing his senses, beads of sweat stood out on Hawkins’ face and Alena dampened a cloth in an attempt to keep his fever at bay. She had wrapped him in a thick blanket and every time she came in contact with him it covered her in more blood. Refusing to let it faze her, she kept nursing him and all the time spoke to him in a soft and soothing voice.
Time was running out for the pilot and he knew they had to get him back as soon as possible if he were to have any chance of surviving. Their escape from Paris had cost too many lives and he didn’t want anyone else’s on their consciences.
His eyes flickering open, Hawkins would rasp instructions about height and course before the effort proved too much and he’d slip back into sleep.
As if programmed, the pilot awoke as they were approaching the south coast of England and surprisingly knew their position, giving course alterations that seemed to be taking them away from their destination. Having no alternative, he followed them to the letter and when Hawkins awoke again he put a hand on Alena’s arm ‘Enough, thanks, go back and look after the boy.’
Hawkins’ voice sounded thin like an old man’s. ‘Going to have to land... on your own. How do you feel...?’
‘Terrified,’ he said and gripped the wheel all th
e harder. He’d been able to put the landing out of his mind by concentrating on maintaining altitude and course. Now he was going to have to go through with it.
‘Not... hard as it looks.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Depends on weather... down there.’ Hawkins coughed and brought up more blood and wiped it from his lips. ‘Don’t want it blowing all over the place... got to turn right now... get in position.’
If you’d asked him to repeat what he was told, he wouldn’t have remembered a word of it such was his concentration, copying every command like an automaton.
After what seemed like an eternity, Hawkins croaked: ‘Bloody perfect... straight run from here... hope there’s not too much wind.’
Hawkins signalled he wanted to speak to the controllers at RAF Hamworthy, and Ben take much of it in. It all sounded too technical and frightening and he struggled to see where they were going as sweat streamed into his eyes making them sting and he couldn’t remove his hands from the wheel to wipe them dry.
‘No... wounded... co-pilot dead.’ He heard Hawkins tell the ground.
There was more static and a voice sounding as if it was in an echo chamber and Hawkins replied: ‘No... never.
‘Bloody good job.
‘So far.’
A long pause as Hawkins mustered his strength. ‘For Christ’s sake... no.’
‘Tom,’ he shouted not taking his eyes off the way ahead, ‘what’s wrong?’
‘Too dangerous... to land,’ the pilot said. ‘Wind getting up... wave height, swell... too strong. Another strip... hundred miles away.’
‘Surely it’s not that bad?’
‘Dangerous... if sea rough,’ and he winced as another wave of pain hit him. ‘If land bow down... it’ll split... we’ll sink... bring engines down on top of us.’
‘Impossible,’ he yelled above the noise of the static and the plane’s groaning and grumbling as it rode the wind making them rock from side to side. If they didn’t get Hawkins medical help as soon as possible, he’d die. He wouldn’t last another hundred miles. This was his only chance.
‘Tell them we’re coming in whether they like it or not.’
Hawkins shook his head. ‘Can’t... it’s an order.’
‘Balls,’ he yelled again above the increasing noise. ‘I’m an American; I’ll do what I want.’
Hawkins slumped in his seat as if he knew his fight was almost over.
‘Tell me what to do, Tom, and I’ll get this plane down.’
Hawkins struggled to make a final effort.
‘Get on with it... might make date after all.’
Despite the controller’s protests, they were instructed to land on Flying Boat Runway South 2 in the Wych Channel between the mainland and Brownsea Island. And Hawkins pointed out if he made a mess of the landing they were unlikely to do too much damage to anyone but themselves.
He glanced sideways and Hawkins was looking more vulnerable and younger than ever. Following every command from the pilot, he reduced the Catalina’s speed and height as his arms ached from the tension. The wind whipped along the sides of the hull and they were riding the currents as if every blast of wind was a hurdle to be cleared and each one appeared to be more of a struggle.
‘Bloody lucky... not a few months ago,’ said Hawkins.
He flashed him a questioning look.
‘Tough winter... boats frozen in.’
He hoped water would make for a softer landing than ice but as he looked down he saw the waves being roughed up by the wind and began to doubt it.
‘Increase revs to 2,300,’ Hawkins croaked.
The engine note changed as if it were protesting.
‘This is the fun part.’ Hawkins coughed and blood spilled down his chin, but this time he just left it. ‘Throttle back... glide in at about 85 knots.
‘Good, good.’
He dare not blink as he stared through the windscreen trying to see what lay ahead but could see only the black of night.
‘Keep nose up... above the horizon.’
He knew the hull should touch first and not the bow and he’d no idea just how high above the water they were and he clenched his teeth to stop from crying out in fear.
Hawkins screamed at him.
‘For Christ’s sake... lift the nose... coming in too fast.’
73
THE flying boat was out of his control.
As they approached the surface, they appeared to pick up speed and he pulled back on the wheel in a desperate attempt to slow it down. Like a runaway steed, with a mind of its own, it refused to respond to his commands, and he shouted to everyone to brace for an almighty collision. He glanced sideways at Hawkins in the hope that even at this late stage there might be something, anything he could say or do to avert a disaster. But the pilot had his head down on his chin and was gripping the sides of his seat.
With a great roar, the bow of the Catalina pierced the sea and ploughed in deep and for a moment all appeared still before it resurfaced with its propellers whipping up the waters so the surface foamed. The impact pulled Ben back in his seat and threw him forward and the harness cut deep through his jacket drawing blood. Water rushed up to meet them and he screamed ‘hold tight, hold tight’ and he heard other voices although he didn’t know what they said or where they came from.
The icy water washed through the cockpit causing him to gasp for breath and bringing him to his senses like a slap in the face. It rose up to his chest and the intense cold numbed him and he was unable to tell whether he’d been injured. His head slumped forward just as another wave surged through the plane and he took a mouthful of water tasting of gasoline and he spat it out. The plane was sinking and if they didn’t free themselves, they would go down with it. He strained to reach over to protect Hawkins as another wave moved through the cabin, pinning him back in his seat.
He couldn’t tell if they were already submerged – and if so there would be little hope – and he realised the impact had smashed part of the cockpit’s windscreen. And water was also flooding in through the bow gun-port. The structure of the plane was so weakened it was beginning to break up, and it groaned and shuddered in the death throes of a sinking ship.
Realising they could be dragged down to the seabed with the Catalina, he fumbled frantically with frozen and shaking fingers to unbuckle his harness and waded over to help Hawkins.
‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ he shouted above the racket of the propellers, ‘before the whole thing goes down.’
Hawkins’ head lay on his chest and he didn’t respond as he freed him and the pilot slipped further down in his seat until his chin was just above the level of the water.
‘Come on,’ he shouted again and shook Hawkins as hard as he dared to, releasing a cloud of red spreading out in the water. There was no reaction, no pulse. Hawkins’ eyes stared ahead as if keeping watch.
The water level was rising fast and he felt a stab of panic as he hadn’t heard anything from Alena and Freddie. Shouting their names, he began wading back through the plane, which sapped his strength as the mini currents twisted and turned and several times knocked him over, and he was immersed again in the freezing waters. He heard nothing above the noise of the thrashing propellers, the wind, and the terminal creaking and groaning of the plane’s hull.
He found Alena and Freddie still buckled in and staring straight ahead, frozen in shock and oblivious to the danger of their situation, and even when he shouted at them they didn’t acknowledge him. He pressed his face into hers and screamed at her above the noise. ‘Come on, move, we’ve got to go.’ And he pulled at their harnesses until his fingers bled.
Alena’s eyes focused as if she’d come out of a trance. ‘Tom?’ she enquired and she was rigid with fear.
There was no time for explanations, but she got her answer from the set of his face and her head went down and when she lifted it tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘Oh, no! Not him, too.’
He shook the
m both. ‘We’ve got to get out of here, this thing is going under.’
Alena lifted Freddie into her arms and waded after Ben to the cargo door. Their survival depended on whether the door was above the water level or beneath it. And he put all his force into attempting to roll it open.
It wouldn’t move.
The door was obviously submerged and he realised the plane was sinking faster than he’d thought. Searching out another escape route, they struggled through the rising water to the Catalina’s two gunports on the top of the fuselage in the waist of the plane. It was slow going and strength sapping and several times they stumbled as another wave hit the Cat, each wave bringing an assortment of floating equipment and bags and other objects that proved to be an added obstacle.
He was now carrying Freddie and had almost reached the gun-ports when Alena screamed. Peering into the darkness, he saw in a flash of moonlight a man’s hand grabbing her leg and she was rooted to the spot paralysed by fear. For an instant, he froze too. Holding a hand over the boy’s eyes so he wouldn’t see, he waded back to Alena and handed him over to her. He bent down and disentangled the hand of the co-pilot, who was floating just below the surface. With as much effort as he could muster, he pushed the almost headless body into the recesses of the plane and, with a hand sticking up out of the water like Excalibur, it floated off into the dark.
Time was against them and in the dark he couldn’t find the catch to release the blister’s canopy. Redoubling his efforts, he braced himself against the hull and kicked it with both legs and the canopy broke free.
‘We’ve got to get out,’ he screamed at her, but in the furore she couldn’t hear him. He motioned for her to step out onto the fuselage, but she hung back clutching Freddie to her breast. Snatching the boy away from her, he pushed her out and she stumbled and fell forward.
‘Hang on,’ he yelled at her.
