Cold War

The approach of a Dakota distracted him from his thoughts because he subconsciously registered that something was wrong with it. He stopped dead in his tracks to focus his attention on the Dak. The aircraft was flying too slowly, and it wallowed slightly as if it either didn’t have enough power or something was wrong with the controls. Priestman’s eyes searched for signs of a dead engine, smoke, or leaking fuel or oil. Usually, when an aircraft had trouble maintaining speed and altitude it had engine trouble of some kind, but both engines were screaming lustily. As it descended towards the start of the PSP runway, it kept dropping suddenly rather than following a steady glide path.

Every muscle in Priestman’s body tensed as he anticipated a bad ending to this flawed flight. How many times during the war had he watched aircraft return from a combat sortie and known long before any damage was visible that an aircraft or pilot was in trouble? Yet while this poor old Dakota looked grungy and clapped out, Priestman could see no specific defect.

The Dakota dropped, caught itself, the nose tipped up, and speed fell off. The kite wallowed on the brink of stalling and Priestman — doubtless along with half the staff at Gatow — held his breath. Then with an audible thud and squeal, the aircraft plopped down on the runway and rolled past the waiting ambulance, fire engine and station commander. The aircraft fishtailed as the brakes were applied, spewing up plumes of burnt rubber. Even so, for a horrible moment, it looked like it might careen right off the end of the runway. It managed to lurch to a halt before it ran out of tarmac and then turned and waddled onto the taxiway.

Without conscious thought, Priestman changed the direction of his steps and plotted a course to intercept it at the hardstanding to which it was being efficiently flagged. The ground controller knew about the troubles and directed it to the nearest offloading point. By the time Priestman arrived, the crew had disembarked and were chattering amongst themselves in obvious relief. Priestman noted the pilot was no youngster, but rather a flight lieutenant in an old uniform. He was also drenched in sweat. He’d removed his cap, exposing longish, blond hair glued to his head, and he wiped his brow with the back of his forearm, his cap in his hand. At the sight of Priestman, he put his cap back on to salute.

Priestman returned it, but quickly asked, “What’s wrong with her, Flight Lieutenant?”

“I wish I knew, sir! I’ve never experienced anything like this in a Dak before. They’re usually docile and cooperative, but she was mushy right from take-off. She hardly got off the ground, and all the way here she wallowed like a Wimpy with too big a bomb load.”

That triggered a thought, “Where did you originate?”

“Celle, sir. Why?”

“Didn’t a York squadron move into Celle over the weekend?”

“Yes, but — you don’t think they confused the cargoes, do you?” The Flight Lieutenant caught his drift.

“We’ll soon find out.” Priestman turned around and waved to the army sergeant who had arrived with an unloading crew of five. Two Germans had already gone aboard the aircraft and were handing the cargo to their colleagues on the waiting flatbed. Priestman signalled the army sergeant over. “Could you check if this is a normal Dakota load?”

“Sir?” the sergeant sounded sceptical but dutifully went to look in the cargo hold of the little freighter. The sight made him pale. “She’s filled to the gills, sir!” he shouted. “There must be six tons of cargo in here!”

Priestman and the Flight Lieutenant looked at one another and burst out laughing.

“That’s twice her maximum!” the Flight Lieutenant reminded the Wing Commander, staggered by what had just happened. He turned around to look affectionately at the battered two-engine freighter and announced with genuine feeling, “I love this kite! After this, I will let no one separate us!”

Priestman clapped the pilot on the shoulder and remarked, “Well done,” but there was no guarantee they would be so lucky next time.