26
Somewhere over the North Sea
4 July 1940
Wing Commander Barclay Hunt sat staring at the Canberra PR9 as they cruised to their let down point, which lay about thirty nautical miles from the Danish coast. This was the boring part. About an hour of twiddling his thumbs whilst his navigator, Ed Brown, scanned his radar for contacts. There were none and quite frankly he didn’t expect any. He was a phlegmatic character, with a First Class Honours Degree from Oxford and an accent to match, and before this bloody time-warp thing he had been successfully climbing the career ladder. His promotion to Group Captain in the coming July had come through, and he had been destined for great things. Everything had been laid out before him and a sparkling future lay ahead. Now this! He was really angry for the first time in his life. Everything he had worked for was destroyed – and only recoverable if they could get back through this so-called window on the eighth of September. He didn’t believe a word of it and was quite prepared to sulk for the rest of this nightmare. This was going to be the last trip he flew. He wasn’t going to risk missing the chance of getting back – so he would feign illness or devise some such other excuse in order to keep him and his ‘personal jet’ safe and sound for the return trip.
Yep, for him the war would soon be over.
‘Nothing on the scope sir.’ Ed Brown kept him up to date on a regular basis as any good navigator would.
‘Surprise, surprise,’ was the Wing Commander’s sarcastic reply. ‘I knew that this would be a waste of time. A waste of fuel and an unacceptable risk to us and the aircraft.’
Ed Brown kept his mouth shut. He knew better than to contradict his boss. Ed was a specialist aircrew navigator with almost thirty-five years flying experience. He was on his last tour before retirement at 55. His house was paid for and he had nice retirement pension and gratuity to look forward to, and he lived alone after the death of his wife five years previously. The current situation was a pain but he had learned over the years to accept anything that the RAF or life threw at him. He’d do his job and hope for the best. Maybe they would make it back in September and maybe they wouldn’t. In any case, he didn’t really care very much one way or the other – no one would miss him very much.
‘Five minutes to the descent point.’ Ed reminded his pilot.
‘Roger, Ed, I’ll give Purple One-Zero a call.’
‘Purple Five calling Purple One-Zero; five minutes.’
The Canberra replied by clicking the transmit button twice. This avoided unnecessary voice traffic. However, unfortunately for them it was too late for security. A German corporal at a remote ground station in Northern Holland was bored, and had been tuning his radio dial to all and sundry stations in order to break the monotony. At 0352 hours that morning, he was sitting with his feet up on the radio table idly listening to some music from a faraway station, when Hunt’s transmission suddenly broke through. The corporal almost fell off his seat. He noted the time and frequency and rushed into the sleeping quarters to rouse his Obergefreiter. It took some doing as the sergeant had had a skinful of Dutch schnapps the night before. The corporal quickly realised that the sergeant was not going to wake up – and even if he did he would dismiss the report as nonsense. So the young radio operator made the decision for himself. He ran back to the radio room, picked up the phone and spun the winder twice. When he got an answer – he passed his message – and started a disastrous chain of events.
The PR9 levelled off at flight level three-zero-zero (thirty thousand feet) and commenced the first photo run over Denmark. The photographic runs were planned from west to east to make life easy for the crew. One ADV Tornado remained at flight level three-five-zero, circling overhead. Hunt didn’t consider there to be any sort of threat so he passed the codeword for the other Tornado to RTB (Return to Base). They acknowledged with two radio blips and departed to the west. When they eventually landed at Middle Fleckney, the third ADV would be ready to get airborne if required. However, at this point in the sortie Wing Commander Hunt believed that it would not be necessary. He even believed that his own aircraft was superfluous, and would say so very forcefully on his return.
The Canberra crew continued on their merry way and were glad to note that cloud cover below was about ten percent. Excellent for the job in hand. When they got back and developed the film, the Photographic Interpreters (PI’s) would construct an elaborate collage and from that could pick out any information they deemed relevant. This was bread and butter work for this PR9 crew and even though they needed accuracy of position over the ground down to one hundred metres, it was a piece of cake.
As they commenced run number ten, from east to west, they transmitted the codeword for RTB. Hunt picked it up and replied with the double blip. However, they weren’t the only interested parties listening in.
The PR9 completed the run and climbed and levelled at flight level three five zero, as the ADV pulled up alongside for the trip home. So far so good, thought Hunt – not a soul in sight – and nor would there be. Even the weather was smiling on them now, as the moon came out from behind the frontal clouds and they bathed in bright moonlight. The fighter dropped back about eight hundred metres so that they could relax and also keep an eye on the PR9.
Purple Six passed a message on the HF to let them know that they had landed safely. They had flown a straight-in glide approach that was almost silent, and the aircraft taxied straight into the hangar without ceremony. It had been previously decided that the third fighter would only get airborne if necessary. Hunt acknowledged and settled down to a sleepy transit back to Middle Fleckney.
The first Ed Brown knew about the attack was when his canopy shattered into a million shards of perspex. Almost immediately, everything not tied down in the cockpit flew up and out of the gaping hole. A noise so loud filled his ears that he couldn’t communicate with the pilot. He had ducked his head almost into his lap as an automatic reaction to the shattering noise. Ed reached for the switch by his side which lowered the ejection seat and pushed. The seat ran down to its lowest setting whilst he tried to shout at Barclay Hunt. He soon realised that it was impossible to do so, as the rush of air was deafening. He concentrated on his breathing as the oxygen regulator tried to compensate for the dramatic change of cabin pressure. They had been thrust from a cabin altitude of around nineteen thousand feet to thirty-five thousand feet and all humans at this height needed extra help to breath. He forced his head up and looked forward past the TV-TAB and tried to see what had happened to the pilot. The aircraft now started a slow roll to the left and the nose dropped. Ed was still fighting the rapid decompression and couldn’t speak. However, his eyes told him the full story. The pilots head was gone – and blood was spurting from the orifice that remained.
Ed couldn’t believe the horror that greeted him. The aircraft was now rolling rapidly to port and he glanced at his altimeter. Twenty three thousand feet. Ed then made the vital split-second decision that saves many aircrew caught up in similar catastrophic scenarios. He would eject!
He fought to get himself upright in his chair and reached for the handle between his knees.
Eighteen thousand feet. His breathing was getting easier but panic was now taking over.
Twelve thousand feet.
He must pull the handle now. He summoned up all the strength he could muster and ejected.
However, it wasn’t Ed Brown’s day.
As the ejection seat rose up the rails the Tornado exploded in a starburst of steel, and a thousand pieces of aeroplane mixed in with the pulped bodies of the two luckless aircrew fell rapidly into the North Sea.
Barclay Hunt was right. This would be his last trip.
***
The dramatic destruction of the Tornado came right out of the blue to the Recce crew, who were blissfully unaware of the plight of their guardian angel. The pilot turned his head and caught sight of the Tornado beneath him. He tipped the wing to port and watched as the remains of the aircraft tumbled towar
ds the water. The navigator shrieked at his pilot;
‘What the fuck was that?’
Al Norman was stupefied. But Steve Hicks wouldn’t give up.
‘Al, what the fucking hell was that?’
‘It's the Tornado, Steve, it's gone.’
‘What do you mean, Gone?’
` ‘What do you think? Gone, blown up, destroyed……Gone.’
Both men lapsed into silence again. And then Steve Hicks got his brain into gear. They could be under attack. The Germans must have scrambled a jet fighter up here and this could be the end for them as well. They had to run away as quickly as possible. They were unarmed, alone and at this moment, Steve Hicks was shitting himself.
‘Al, full throttle, we’ve got to get out of here.’
Al Norman finally woke up and acknowledged Steve’s call.
‘Right, climb or descend? We can get to fifty thousand feet plus, and I don’t reckon anyone can get us up there.’
‘OK, you’re obviously thinking what I’m thinking. We’ve been attacked by the Gerry jet.’
‘Correct, Steve. And we’re still thirty minutes from base.’
Steve Hicks thought quickly.
‘Al, what’s the weather ahead like?’
‘Cloudy and thickening over the coast’
‘Right then, I vote we do an emergency descent and lose ourselves in the weather. Also that will get us home quicker and if there is a jet out here he must be running out of fuel. What do you say?’
‘Down we go then.’ and Al commenced an emergency descent. Meanwhile Steve hit the radio.
‘Mike Fox this is Purple One-Zero. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! Purple Five destroyed by enemy fire. We are one hundred and eighty miles north east of base, commencing emergency descent to use cloud cover to avoid bandit. Request assistance.’
The group of people waiting in ATC for the return of the mission looked at each other in stunned silence. Just what was going on?
Gloria King took the initiative.
‘Standby Purple One-Zero’
She turned to Todd and asked the question.
‘Scramble Purple Seven?’
Todd nodded. Gloria got on with her job.
‘Purple Seven, tower, Scramble. Bandit position zero-five-zero / one-niner-zero miles – unknown height. Do you copy Purple Seven and One Zero?
‘Roger Tower, Purple Seven, scramble.’
The PR9 was now safely concealed in cloud at three thousand feet and doing five hundred and fifty knots. They had no idea if they were still being followed but dared not take any chances. They were heading for home at max throttle and bugger the fuel!
Within thirty seconds the doors to the hangar were open. The Tornado poked it's nose out and two minutes later approached the take-off point. It was airborne in less than five minutes from receiving the scramble message. It disappeared into cloud at two thousand feet and zoom climbed to thirty thousand feet. The navigator, Squadron Leader Rick Hill, was as experienced as they come. He worked his radar with the expertise of a true master. Within two minutes he had the PR9 on radar at one hundred miles. He scanned the airspace beyond the Canberra and searched for marauding aircraft. At first, nothing. He tried out to the full extent of his radar and yes, there at one hundred and thirty miles and at eighteen thousand feet he had a contact, heading two-two-zero.
‘Mike Fox, contact bogey zero-four-zero / one hundred and thirty miles - closing. Instructions?’
In the tower at Middle Fleckney, Todd Morrissey reached down for the microphone and snatched it from Gloria.
‘Purple Seven from Mike Fox. Splash the bastard!’
Purple Seven acknowledged and increased throttle. The nav worked out his intercept vector and passed instructions to the pilot.
‘OK, PJ, we’ll cross in four minutes and we’ll take him from behind and carry straight on back to base’
‘Roger, just tell me when.’ ‘PJ’ Proby was an American Marine pilot on exchange. Nicknamed PJ after the sixties singer, he was as laid back as they come. He never spoke unless he had something to say, and when he did, everyone listened.
Over the next three minutes the crew worked in silence except for range information going from the rear cockpit to front. At Rick’s command the Tornado began its intercept turn. The German jet was doing about four hundred and fifty knots but was making no headway on the PR9. He was clearly unaware of the Tornados presence and was taken completely by surprise when the AIM-9 Infra-Red air-to-air missile smacked into his jet pipe.
The German jet bucked forward smashing the pilots head against his control panel. He was quite dead when his aircraft hit the water forty miles off the Norfolk coast.
PJ made his message short and to the point.
‘Mike Fox, Purple Seven. Fox-Two. Splashed one jet, returning to base.’
The ATC tower erupted in celebration of this first victory.
‘Roger, Purple Seven, clear recovery, number two’
The Tornado acknowledged and the PR9 transmitted a brief. ‘Thanks, mate.’
The recovery to Middle Fleckney was uneventful, with both aircraft making low power glide approaches. By 0600 all aircraft were back in the hangar – all except of course – Purple Five. He had paid the ultimate price for complacency. Todd made a silent vow that none of his team would make the same mistake again.
27
Middle Fleckney
5 July 1940
A short memorial service was held at 1400 hours the next day. Todd took the opportunity to give a ‘state of the union’ speech, reminding everyone that this situation was very real and that people would die – had died - because perhaps they didn’t take their responsibilities seriously enough. (Todd had been vaguely aware of Barclay Hunt’s negative attitude and on reflection, should not have let him fly on the inaugural mission. Todd was also at fault!) The message got through and it was a very morose group of people who returned to their duties.
However, it was not all bad news. The main mission from the night before had been to obtain photography of the area in Denmark suspected of housing the German jet aircraft project. The Photographic Interpreters had been pouring over the infra-red photography, and with the help of the 1992 tradesmen were able to pick out a very useful piece of information. At an apparently disused airfield on an island off the coast of Denmark were the tell-tale footprints of jet aircraft. When a jet runs its engines whilst parked on the airfield or at the take-off point, it leaves an infra-red signature. The ground around the jet is cooler, so the hot jet wash leaves a scar of white on infra-red film, and an aircraft shaped shadow on the concrete. Four such scars were visible on the airfield on the island of Fohr, just off the Danish coast. Not only had they discovered their quarry, but could also mock up 3D version of the German jet based on the shadows. This might help aircrews with identification and evasion.
Churchill was delighted when presented with this news and ordered an immediate airstrike against the island. The only question remaining to be answered was who should do it? The bombers of Bomber command or the Tornados of Todd's Purple force 1992.
28
Jim Charles - The Met Man
Todd was approached by Jim Charles directly after the memorial service. He asked for a few minutes of the Wing Commander’s time to talk over a few puzzling factors concerning their peculiar and unprecedented? situation.
Todd was more than mildly intrigued, so he invited Jim back to his office for some privacy. He arranged for tea and asked Jim to sit down.
‘What’s on your mind, Jim?’ asked Todd benignly. He realised that the Met Man was on his own – that was, he didn’t belong to any of the specific teams or groups – so had become a bit of a loner. He was fifty-eight years old and a bachelor, a quiet, intense and insular soul. Todd wondered whether he was becoming too lonely, though.
‘Well, sir, perhaps I should give you some background before I put forward my theories and my sense of additional disquiet. I realise that the situation is bizarre in the extreme, but
there is something not quite right – even if we fully accept that we are in 1940.’
Todd poured the tea and asked Jim to continue. By now the Met Man had his full attention.
‘I was born in 1934 and remember the war very well. As a six year old I watched the aircraft above Maidstone, where I lived, and the white condensation trails were a source of great fascination. I suppose that was the birth of my lifelong interest in the weather.
Anyway, after the war I completed my schooling and went to university. My father was a regular RAF bomber pilot and stayed on after 1945 to continue his career. By the mid-fifties, I came down from Cambridge with a good degree and joined the civil service. I was determined to become involved with Meteorology – to the dismay of my parents – and began my career. It peaked as a television presenter for the BBC in the early eighties – but of course, you know all this.
JET LAG! Page 14