ALMOST HOME
This story is fiction – but like most fiction it is based upon some happening one may have heard about first or second hand. This story was told to me many years ago one midnight shift in the Vancouver International Airport Control Tower. The Controller who recited the story to me those fifty some years ago has passed away – the little episode that follows has stayed with me.
The hurricane shuddered as it took the flack. I was at 19000ft somewhere near the border of France and Germany. I wasn’t quite sure where I was but I definitely knew I didn't want to crash-land in the dark. If by some chance I survived the crash landing, the odds were I'd be met by some German fanatic who would just as soon shoot me as look at me. If I survived the crash, and if wasn’t shot, the thought of spending years in a German prison camp didn't really wind my watch either.
These thoughts flashed through my mind in an instant.
We were on a night escort run with the American B17's. I'd lost them in the clouds a few minutes before the flack started. We were just about at the point where our fuel reserves dictated a return to base in England when I was hit.
I immediately made a 180, and started for home.
Although I definitely felt the flack hit the aircraft there seemed to be no damage and more importantly the Merlin engine kept purring along beautifully. I started to breath again (didn’t notice, must have stopped breathing for awhile), and began to plot my course for home.
I thought I’d give red leader a short call to let him know I'm heading back.
“Red lead, red 3” I called, then I noticed the radio was deader than a doornail. Oh well I'll worry about that when I get over Dover.
The flack had stopped and being in the cloud there was no chance of any enemy fighters giving me a problem. Yep I had it made as I sped toward home, a nice hot toddy, and a warm bed.
About 15 minutes went by and I got out of the clouds, it was a beautiful night, not a cloud in the sky. No moon just a few million stars. Except for being a little chilly, things couldn't be going better.
I began to start a long shallow descent, and as I passed through 16000ft I noticed the whole world below looked like it was covered in fog. As I completed my periodic instrument check I noticed the fuel gage was on the blink, or I was losing fuel at a rapid rate. If the gage was accurate I just might have to put it down, hopefully not in the channel. I immediately leveled off at 16,000 ft. The idea of landing without power at night, even if I was over England was not something to look forward too. The idea of landing in fog without power at night was completely out of the question.
As our instructors had said, if you can't find an airport in the fog, bail out, it’s much better to lose an aircraft than lose both an aircraft and a pilot. I'd never bailed out of an aircraft, and I didn't really want to start now. The thing I was worried about though was the icy water of the Channel. I'd heard the stories and seen the pictures. Yeah those pictures of airmen, found after only a few hours in the water, very, very dead. I was glad I had discontinued my descent, the higher I was if the engine failed the further I could coast. Unfortunately this fighter plane wasn't exactly a glider; in fact it glided like a brick. By my rough calculations, I figured I was just coming up on the French coast of the channel, another six or 7 minutes and at least I would be over the right country anyway.
Instant silence. Believe me you have not heard silence until you have heard it after a twenty five hundred horsepower engine has quit at night at 16,000ft.
Oh no, my worst fears were realized. Instantly I was starting down, at what seemed a terrific rate. Well unless the ground fog cleared within a few minutes I definitely would have to bail out. I had on my Mae West over a sheepskin jacket, leather pants and mitts. I shouldn't' sink with the Mae West and the heavy clothes might keep me alive for a few hours if I went into the drink, God forbid.
I was going through 3000ft; it was decision time.
Solid fog.
I pulled back the canopy undid my seat belt and leaped out into the black night. The crack of the nylon canopy and the snap of my neck signaled the chute had opened. It was good to know something went right tonight.
It was very peaceful as I gently floated down toward the fog.
“Please God let me hit good old mother earth." I heard a voice say.
It sounded much like mine.
I entered the fog layer.
Splash!!
"Shit” I heard that voice say again.
I knew I was in the English Channel somewhere. At survival training they had said pull up your knees make yourself as small as possible, keep as still as possible and wait for rescue. So I did.
I figured they would realize I was missing within an hour or so, and the patrol ships and coastal command would be making their morning sweep of the channel as soon as it was daylight. I just had to hang on until then. I wasn't very optimistic that I would be found before I died of exposure, if at all, but there was always a chance. About an hour had passed and the fog was still so thick I couldn't see a foot in any direction.
I was getting very cold, and weak, and it seemed my ears were starting to ring.
They hadn't mentioned ringing ears from hypothermia at survival training. I guess they figured by the time you got that far it was too late to worry anyway. Another hour or so passed. I figured hypothermia was setting in for sure, I was sort of hallucinating and the ringing was getting worse, in fact it was starting to change to bells.
I felt myself falling into a coma, and as I starred blankly into the fog it seemed at times to change into swirling ugly monsters, then melt away.
I knew I was going fast.
Another half-hour passed and I was sure I had lost my mind, I was hearing moaning sounds. Suddenly a breeze came up and the fog cleared for an instant.
There not 5 feet away were 4 very large cows, peering at me in the drainage ditch.
Written by Larry W. Bennett
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