stand in, almost perpendicular to the damaged floor.
The remains of a man lay amongst the carnage, destroyed by the passage of metal through the crew space, and then swiftly flash burnt as the brief fire swelled and virtually died.
There was no sign of the second man, the one whose position lay at the point of impact.
Using the extinguisher to knock down the last few flames, he became aware of the noise created by the wind rushing through the compartment. The passing air stream created a Venturi effect and was sucking loose matter out of the hole.
Papers momentarily hung in the air and then rushed out into the atmosphere.
Hanebury plugged his intercom in and drew a deep breath before speaking.
“Tail, pilot.”
Crail responded, anxiously awaiting the news.
“JP, all depressurised here. I don’t think the Nip hit us square, just a glancing blow. We’ve a big hole in the starboard size, six foot across easy, and just as high, with damage to the air frame extending beyond and above that… can’t see below impact point yet, over.”
“Roger, Any more? How are the boys, over?”
“Both gone, JP. They’d no chance. No fire present… knocked out the little bit that remained… checking for further damage, over.”
“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
The remains of a man lay amongst the carnage, destroyed by the passage of metal through the crew space, and then swiftly flash burnt as the brief fire swelled and virtually died.
There was no sign of the second man, the one whose position lay at the point of impact.
Using the extinguisher to knock down the last few flames, he became aware of the noise created by the wind rushing through the compartment. The passing air stream created a Venturi effect and was sucking loose matter out of the hole.
Papers momentarily hung in the air and then rushed out into the atmosphere.
Hanebury plugged his intercom in and drew a deep breath before speaking.
“Tail, pilot.”
Crail responded, anxiously awaiting the news.
“JP, all depressurised here. I don’t think the Nip hit us square, just a glancing blow. We’ve a big hole in the starboard size, six foot across easy, and just as high, with damage to the air frame extending beyond and above that… can’t see below impact point yet, over.”
“Roger, Any more? How are the boys, over?”
“Both gone, JP. They’d no chance. No fire present… knocked out the little bit that remained… checking for further damage, over.”
“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
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