That was it — the fuel had run out and they were now in the lap of the gods.
Without looking at his co-pilot, he willed the aircraft down, transfixed as the grey tarmac disappeared under them.
By a miracle, they had reached the overshoot area.
Hornsby wrenched at the trim wheel. ‘Here we go then, David, Brace! Brace! Brace!’
They both stared through the windshield as the ground began to move towards them; the final thing being felt by the two men was a loud thud beneath their seats, as the Shackleton smashed into the dirt.
They held on to the yokes in defiance, as the machine vibrated all around them, sliding along for another fifty feet before lumbering to a halt, having thrown a mixture of soil and debris into the air, creating a long trench of ploughed earth. A scattering of propeller blades was also left in their wake, as one by one on contact, they had all sheared off.
From the control tower, the Canadian officials viewed the spectacle through binoculars. One of those men, Roy Jessop, had been a signals operator as both man and boy. What he witnessed playing out before him, reminded him of his days as a radio operator aboard a Lancaster during World War II and the many times that, having got safely back from a mission over Nazi Germany, he had to endure the tension as his fellow crews limped their aircraft home, engines on fire and trying to make a landing.
The fact that the aircraft he was watching, resembled that old flying war horse, and being from the same Avro stable, added to his memories of those fateful, cold, moonlit nights.
He now observed attentively, with hope in his eyes as the big plane plummeted to the ground, its twin tails rising into the air as it swayed to the right on its swollen, defunct weapons bay, sliding through the soft earth with pieces of the aircraft flying off in all directions. Some would never be found again, having embedded themselves into the dried soil.
One of the uniformed men behind him reached for an alarm, which then shrilled around the terminal building.
Reynolds opened his eyes and quickly checked himself over. Relieved that he was okay, he turned to see Hornsby slumped over the steering yoke, and shouted at him.
Receiving no answer, he grabbed the man’s wrist to check for a pulse. He was still alive, but bleeding from somewhere on his head. He unlocked himself from his seat and did the same for his pilot. Then, carefully lifting him out, hoisted Hornsby over his right shoulder.
Now carrying the unconscious Hornsby, he walked down the fuselage towards the exit and kicked open the door, throwing in the sunshine from the warm outside. Then, stepping down onto the hot barren ground, he walked a little more, carefully setting down his heavy burden before collapsing in a heap next to him.
He dragged Hornsby onto the rough ground to a bed of dried grass, and taking off his jacket, rolled it up, placing it under the squadron leader’s head. He then went back inside the plane to look for something he knew he would need. Reynolds soon emerged again, carrying a green box.
At the main terminal, a party of vehicles with men in blue berets headed out to the far side of the airfield, in the direction of the smoking Shackleton. Among them were a fire engine, and field ambulance with a red cross painted on the side of it.
The aircraft itself looked as though it had crawled home to die, and with its undercarriage still recessed inside and the starboard wing partially detached thanks to the impact of the belly landing, it resembled a huge, fatally wounded, bird.
Reynolds saw the white vehicles approaching quickly and looked back down at his patient. He was pleased with the field dressing that now encased Hornsby’s head, and then noticed the pilot’s eyes were beginning to flicker.
They opened — and stared into those of the big blonde mercenary. The mercenary smiled. ‘Back from the dead, then, Johnno?’
Hornsby touched his bandage. ‘How long was I out for?’
‘Only for about five minutes. Try not to move, I think your collar bone might be broken. You’ve also got a small gash in your head from when you hit the yoke, which I managed to fix up using the first aid kit from the Shack. Don’t panic, help is on its way.’
Hornsby smiled. ‘Good old Doris,’ he sighed. ‘How is she, by the way?’ He attempted to turn and check, but a stabbing pain soon prevented him from doing so.
Reynolds patted him. ‘You did it, Johnno. You got us down. The fire’s out, but I think her flying days are well and truly over.’
He checked on the progress of the rescue party, then turned back to Hornsby with a more serious look on his face. ‘Well, this is where I leave you now, my friend. If that lot gets hold of me and they realise I am not actually a British soldier anymore, they’ll arrest me and lock me up. Besides, I’ve got a date — with a dodgy Yank politician.’
Reynolds took the hand of the arm not affected by the pain. ‘Take care, Johnno. It’s been a real pleasure flying with you.’
Before Hornsby could return the compliment, or ask him more about the mysterious American he had mentioned, his last co-pilot had moved from sight, allowing him now to see the rescue vehicles drawing nearer to him.
By the time the UN medical team had attended to him, and using the wrecked Doris as a blind spot, Reynolds had managed to scale the perimeter fence and vanish through the undergrowth.
Chapter 35
Now aboard HMS Andover, Will Crossman was first taken under armed guard to the medical room, where he was examined and then treated for mild concussion (from the collision with Murphy’s bunk following the first torpedo) and scratches to his upper body (sustained when he had literally been thrown through the hatch).
He was now sitting opposite Waring in the briefing room. On either side of him, two soldiers of the Royal Marine contingent stood at ease, like Roman war statues, their side arms in hip holsters. It was as if Crossman was the accused in a court-martial.
Waring read documents that lay in front of him, communiqués from his chiefs at Northwood. He then addressed the American, ‘You still haven’t given us your name, so I think we’ll start with that.’
Crossman remained silent. Waring decided to look more serious. ‘Listen, sir. We cannot help you, unless you cooperate. So please, can you tell me who you are and what your intentions were with regard to the submarine?’
Taking a quick glance at the two men standing over him, the mercenary submariner relaxed himself. ‘My name is William Crossman, lieutenant, ex-US navy.’
Finally, Waring was beginning to get somewhere. He scribbled the name down on a pad.
‘Okay, Mr Crossman, so — were you the leader of this little pirate crew?’
Crossman shook his head. ‘No, I was acting as ex-o.’
‘So, who was your captain, and where is he now?’
Crossman thought about Murphy, the bitter and grief-stricken man, and of how Murphy had sacrificed his own life to save his. ‘His name was Mike Murphy.’
Waring also recorded this, but as to the whereabouts of this man, the ‘was’ in Crossman’s answer had soon led him to one conclusion. After all, wasn’t it what every captain was expected to do in these situations? Had Mike Murphy really gone down with his vessel.
Crossman explained what had happened after the torpedoes had struck after which Waring couldn’t help but express his appreciation of the man’s brave act.
More questions followed. ‘What was your mission?’
At this point, Crossman decided to tell all. He explained how the USS Hatcher, a decommissioned hunter-killer Tench-class submarine had been altered to resemble a boat of the Greek Navy. This allowed them to move through the waters, to engage their intended target.