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 wash 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
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 wash 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
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