Cold Victory

She rolled her head a couple of times, trying to relieve the tension building between her shoulders. The Air Movements Assistant on this watch with her, WAAF Corporal Henderson, handed her a sheet of paper with the list of aircraft off-loading. With a glance at the board beside her, Kathleen could see the filed flight plans of the first dozen aircraft preparing to depart.

Behind her a telephone rang, and she heard the Duty Flying Control Officer, Fl/Lt. Mitchell, take the call, saying “Tower” into the receiver. She didn’t listen any further because an aircraft radioed in requesting clearance to taxi. Kathleen provided him with instructions to join the queue for the PSP departure runway.

Behind her, Fl/Lt Mitchell raised his voice. “Has anyone heard anything from Moby Dick? The WingCo’s on the line and he says it’s overdue.”

“I’ll just check, sir,” Corporal Groom responded, and Kathleen glanced over as he checked the flight plan for incoming aircraft. A moment later, Groom reported, “Scheduled departure from Wunstorf was 17:50. Turn into the northern corridor should have been at 18:25 with an estimated arrival time of 19:20.” That was forty-five minutes ago, Kathleen registered with a whiff of alarm. But Groom provided the explanation, “Wunstorf reported snow starting about that time, sir. They may have had to hold all aircraft while they cleared the runway. Should I call Wunstorf and get an updated ETA?”

“Yes, do that,” Mitchell agreed and passed the information on to the WingCo on the other end of the line.

Kathleen focused on splicing a tanker from the fuel depot behind a line of Yorks already in the take-off queue and a flight of Dakotas. She was just about to clear a Dakota for push-back when Groom called across the room in controlled but unmistakable alarm. “Fl/Lt Mitchell, sir! Wunstorf is reporting that Moby Dick departed on schedule, or very nearly, at 17:53 — before the snow set in.”

“What?” Mitchell snapped back, and everyone in the entire room went silent and still. Kathleen looked again at the clock. It was now 20:15. Moby Dick was fifty-five minutes overdue.

“Contact the Berlin Air Safety Centre and see if they have contact with Moby Dick. If not, ask them to put out a call to all inbound aircraft on the northern corridor for information.”

While Groom complied with orders, Kathleen went back to work, but she felt her neck muscles cramping up again. She alternated rotating her shoulders with rolling her head back and forth, but nothing seemed to help. The tension was rising within her. Every crash was bad, but the thought of the air ambulance going down with Mrs Priestman on board was almost unbearable.

“The Berlin Air Safety Centre says Soviet jamming has made it impossible to communicate with most of the inbound traffic, sir,” Groom called across the room.

“Meaning they don’t know if Moby Dick is on approach or not,” Mitchell interpreted.

“Correct, sir.”

“What’s the Wellington’s fuel capacity? Could they have overshot for some reason and be wandering around Polish air space? I heard one USAF Skymaster did that.”

Kathleen remembered the incident, too. Everyone had had a good laugh at the time because it turned out the pilots had tuned their radios into the broadcast of an American football game and become so engrossed in the sport that they had flown right over Berlin and continued for almost a hundred miles before they noticed something was wrong. They radioed in confused and sheepish and were told to turn around and fly on a reciprocal course.

“The Wellington has the fuel capacity,” Groom answered his superior’s question, “but Flying Officer Priestman” (he used her VR rank) “isn’t the kind of pilot to get lost — not by far, anyway.” Kathleen agreed with that assessment and nodded unconsciously.

From behind her, a voice asked quietly but firmly, “So, what do you have?” Kathleen tensed. It was the WingCo himself. Kathleen risked only a quick glance and then tried to look completely preoccupied while Mitchell reported what they knew.

“Where are Albie and Peggy?” The WingCo asked, referring to the two Halifaxes owned and flown by Emergency Air Services.

“I’ll just check, sir,” Mitchell replied and crossed the room to the board with incoming flight plans. He returned with the news. “Albie is outbound for Celle with its last cargo of the day. Peggie is inbound from Fassberg and slightly overdue. Most aircraft are running about five minutes late. Peggie was scheduled to land at 20:20.” It was now 20:26.

The WingCo walked away from the tables by the windows and entered the radar room. Kathleen could hear low voices and then the WingCo’s precise voice talking over the radio. “Kit, Robin here. Moby Dick is overdue. Have you had any contact with it over the last two hours?” Kathleen could not make out the answer that was badly compromised by static, but she heard the WingCo thank Moran and say, “Turning you back over to Control.”

Re-entering the main tower, Priestman addressed Mitchell. “We need to put out a call on all our frequencies.”

“Yes, sir. Do you want to do that?”

“Yes, I’ll do it.”

An aircraft was demanding Kathleen’s instructions in an annoyed tone, and she realised she had ignored its first attempt to attract her attention. She picked up her microphone and provided the necessary guidance, trying hard to keep her voice relaxed and not think about Moby Dick.

Shortly afterwards, the WingCo’s voice came over the airwaves. “This is RAF Gatow. One of our aircraft is missing. Request all inbound aircraft to report any fires or flashing lights observed on the ground. Repeat: report fires or flashing lights seen on the ground below the northern corridor to Gatow Control Tower.” The message went out twice on all their frequencies. Kathleen could hear a smattering of “Rogers” and “Wilcos” from the pilots, but no response containing information.

At 20:31 Peggie for Pegasus put down on the concrete runway and flashed by the tower, easily recognizable by its bright white livery. About fifteen minutes later, FL/Lt Moran arrived in the tower and came straight over to the WingCo, asking what had happened.

“We don’t know. They took off practically on schedule from Wunstorf at 17:53 and apparently entered the corridor by 18:25 when you say you talked to her.”

“That’s right.”

“That was the last anyone has heard of them. Did you see anything coming in?”

“I flew above the cloud cover — as did all the heavies. There’s good visibility up there and we can use celestial navigation. The only aircraft flying below the cloud are the Daks and, of course, Moby Dick. Emily prefers and usually gets a clearance at 3,000 feet or less since she’s without a navigator and the stars are no use to her. Both she and Jan learned to follow the landscape as ferry pilots and are more comfortable at a lower altitude.”

“What altitude are the Daks flying in this weather?” The WingCo asked.

“Four thousand, four thousand-five,” Moran answered.

“Did Emily mention anything about mechanical problems when you spoke?”

“She said the fuel gauge seemed to be acting up. Look, Gordon will be going crazy by now. Let me nip down to the hangar and see if he has any ideas — or do you want me to stop by the Malcolm Club first and see if I can find some Dakota pilots?”

“Go and talk to Gordon. I’ll have someone else sort out the Dakota pilots.” Moran departed, and Priestman sent his adjutant to the Malcolm Club.

An unnatural calm descended over the tower. No one was chatting among themselves or joking with the pilots as they would normally have been doing. Everyone confined themselves to the minimal communication necessary to get their jobs done. At least the snow was still holding off.

Moran returned to report that EAS’ ground chief swore the Wellington was in A1 condition, including the fuel gauge, which he said had been serviced only a couple of days earlier. The WingCo sighed. “I don’t doubt him. It’s just that I don’t know what else to think.” He drew a deep breath, audible to Kathleen even as she concentrated on her job. “You might as well go home, Kit. Georgina will be worrying and there’s nothing you can do here.”

“I’ve already rung Georgina. She told me to help you in any way I can. What can I do?”

“Would you mind going down to Translation and seeing if the Soviets are reporting anything?”

“I’ll go straight away.”

Soon afterwards a Dakota pilot emerged from the stairway. He had already landed and been at the Malcolm Club when the WingCo had made his announcement over the radio, but Stan had found him and sent him to the tower. He anxiously and eagerly reported that he’d noticed navigation lights below him that appeared to be straying off course roughly 30 minutes into his flight. He’d tried to raise the aircraft, thinking they might have a navigational error, but got only static in response. Since he’d heard no mayday call and he could see neither flames nor indications of erratic flying, he concluded it was a Soviet aircraft on approach to the Soviet airfield at Parchim.

This report triggered a flurry of activity as the pilot, the WingCo and Fl/Lt Mitchell tried to calculate where the pilot had been at the time he saw the lights and, based on the direction the aircraft had been flying, where it might have been going.

Shortly afterwards another pilot reported that he’d heard a woman’s voice on the radio. The tone of voice had been urgent but not panicky. However, he had been unable to understand what she was saying because Russian singing kept bursting in and blotting out her voice. Just something about “fuel” and “can’t reach BASC” — which, he pointed out, none of them could. He ended with, “The odd thing, sir, was that the woman sounded American, but the Americans don’t have any women pilots.”

“Jan!” The WingCo gasped, and only then did Kathleen register that two of J.B.’s best friends were also on the missing aircraft.

“Sir?” the RAF pilot asked bewildered.

“The Second Pilot on the air ambulance, the one everyone knows as Moby Dick, is a former American ferry pilot.”

“Oh. Is that the missing aircraft, sir?”

“Yes.”

There was an awkward silence as the pilot made the connections and then said in a small voice, “I’m very sorry, sir.”

“Understood,” Priestman answered, straining to remain professional.

Kathleen’s heart went out to him. He had to maintain perfect calm and the neutrality of the station commander. He couldn’t allow himself to treat this missing aircraft differently from any other — and yet it was. It was his wife who was missing.