by Sewell, Ron
Geller took the heavy case and climbed into the cockpit. Two minutes later he gave Arno a satchel. “Your money.”
Arno opened the bag.
“Count it, every Reich-mark is there,” said Geller.
Arno closed the bag. “Hauptman, what is your departure time?”
“When our tanks are full and the spare drums loaded.” He turned. “Men, time to go home.”
Two stood and rolled the drums into position, while the other prepared a battery-driven-pump. Arno and Alphonso sat in the truck, smoked, talked and waited.
A few hours later, one by one the three engines turned, fired, stuttered, and settled into a regular rhythmic roar.
With the check for obstructions complete, Arno positioned his truck with its headlights on full beam at the end of the landing strip.
The twenty-five metre long craft nudged over the sand. With the brakes released the engines at full power, it charged along, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. The tail lifted, the fuselage shook, and they were airborne. Geller laughed as he flew low, enveloping Arno’s truck. On reaching a height of six thousand metres, he set course for Tripoli and switched on the auto device. He turned to his co-pilot, signalling for him to sleep. The engines droned and alone with a clear starlit sky, he relaxed.
***
Geller shook his co-pilot awake and to make sure, he placed a warm cup of coffee in his hands managing a grin as he did so. “Hans, weather’s getting up and I don’t trust this new-fangled auto- technique in a storm.”
Hans rubbed his eyes, sipped the hot liquid and focussed on the black clouds in the distance. “We’ve been through worse, Hauptman.”
“My right knee hurts.”
“Your knee can tell the weather?”
“When it aches I know.”
With a power direct from Hades the storm struck and visibility reduced to zero. The plane dropped, rose, twisted and levelled out five hundred metres lower. Geller corrected their heading. An up draught grabbed, lifted them a thousand metres at the speed of an express train. His eyes watched the altimeter stop and spin as they fell into a hole. His body dug into the metal seat. Noises from tormented metal struck his ears as the storm battered the craft.
“Hauptman, a big one.”
Wild, uncontrolled air currents buffeted the craft and the visibility remained grim.
“Sand storm,” said Geller. “Keep an eye on the engine gauges. A blocked air intake is the last thing we need.”
“Hauptman, I didn’t think sand storms came this high.”
“Check our height. Maybe we have room to climb.”
“Four thousand metres and dropping.”
“It can’t be.” Geller heaved on the controls. “Help me.”
A dark wall of dust shrouded the aircraft.
“Hauptman, port engine’s losing power. Three thousand, two.”
The controls responded. Geller levelled the craft.” Where are we? There should be an oasis airfield ahead of us.” The fuselage shuddered as if struck by a nameless force.
“One thousand metres and dropping.”
“Sunlight,” shouted Geller. “We made it. Find Ali Wigi airfield.”
The reassuring roar of three engines filled their ears.
“I can’t see it and we’re still losing height.”
Geller’s eyes strayed to the altimeter. “Impossible.” He struggled as the altimeter continued to turn in the wrong direction. “I’m going to land this crate on the first bit of flat ground we see.”
“Port engine’s stopped.”
The remaining two engines strained as they banked left then right. “Hans, we’re three hours from Tripoli. Send a message. Thank God we made it through the mountains.” He pointed. “I’m going to land over there.”
With haste, Geller completed the landing checks.
The wheels touched, ploughed deep into the soft dry sand, and ripped from the wings. On its belly, it bounced, struck hidden rocks and split apart. Wings, full of fuel, somersaulted through the air before ending in a tangled metal web. Shock waves pulsed through the two men’s bodies. Propellers bent and ground into the desert floor.
