Cold War

Half an hour later, the ceiling dropped to just 100 feet, which meant the pilots were flying blind until seconds before touchdown. This made them utterly dependent on the controllers, and pilots didn’t like that. The pressure on the controllers increased commensurately.

Kathleen checked with the Air Movements Assistant whether the air ambulance was scheduled to fly in this morning. Much as she admired what AAI was doing, the ambulance inherently required extra attention. First of all, it was a Wellington, which meant it was given a different cruising altitude and speed. Second, it had to park near the sick quarters, not at one of the unloading hardstandings. Finally, on departure, it was given precedence, which disrupted the normal flow of traffic, both on the taxiways and on the runway. On a day like today, it would be a particular burden. Fortunately, it had already departed with its first load of patients and would not be back for several hours. By then, fingers crossed, the weather might have lifted a little.

Kathleen had only been at her radar station about twenty minutes when a pilot called in, identifying himself as Rafair 198, and adding, “Gatow control, just so you know, this is my first approach.”

“Well,” Kathleen quipped back, “you certainly picked a fine day for it!”

“Wouldn’t you know? It’s my birthday too.”

“Many Happy Returns,” she wished him cheerfully.

“A return to Berlin was the one thing I fervently wished I would never have last time I was here.”

“I can imagine, but it’s changed a bit — thanks to you and your friends.”

Several aircraft later, a pilot broke into the monotony with a loud “Crikey! There is water below me! I thought Berlin was landlocked.”

“You’re over the Havel.”

“Are you sure? It looks like the North Sea to me.”

“It’s a lot smaller and warmer.”

“Is it water all the way to Gatow from here? There aren’t any tall obstacles — Crikey!”

Another voice commented dryly, “Just got a glimpse of Kaiser Bill’s bones,” meaning the Kaiser Wilhelm Tower that reared up more than 150 feet directly beside the Havel.

Squadron Leader Garth came to stand behind Kathleen for a few moments and remarked in a calm voice, “We’ll swap controllers on the hour.” The watch system they had instituted after the completion of the concrete runway entailed two radar controllers on at all times, one for each runway. However, because talking the aircraft down for landings was more stressful than controlling take-off, the controllers usually switched runways after two hours. Garth’s comment meant the swap would come after just one hour. Just as well, Kathleen thought as the rain thundered on the roof overhead, all but drowning out the radio transmissions.

Beside her “Willie” Wilkins on the master radar started visibly and exclaimed, “What the devil…?”

Kathleen glanced over at him. He was frowning and leaning in towards the screen while trying to fiddle with some of the settings. His radar provided a complete picture of Berlin airspace, not just the approach paths to Gatow. The rain squall appeared to have disrupted the transmissions.

She was glad her own set was working without any trouble as she concentrated on another block of eight Yorks.

Willie called out to the Assistant Flying Control Officer, “Flight Lieutenant Mitchell? Could you come here for a moment?”

Kathleen tried to ignore what was going on beside her. She had a pilot with a thick Welsh accent that she found difficult to understand and, assuming the problem was reciprocal, she made an effort to enunciate precisely. “A little more to starboard… Good… Maintain course and speed but increase your rate of descent by another fifty feet per minute… That’s good. Glide path now excellent.”

“I had an aircraft right here,” Willie explained as Mitchell looked over his shoulder. “And it’s gone. Just gone. More than two miles out from Tempelhof.”

Kathleen forced herself not to listen to the continued exchange. She concentrated on her job. She spoke over the R/T, “Rafair 268, you should be breaking clear of cloud any moment.”

His answer was drowned out by a voice calling from the tower. “Sir! Tempelhof is reporting an aircraft down!”

Kathleen rigidly maintained concentration until Rafair 268 was safely down. Then she looked up and to her left. Garth had joined Mitchell and Willie. Together they blocked her view of the screen, but from behind her someone reported, “Tempelhof is saying an inbound USAF C-47 with a load of flour went down in Friedenau, sir. Handjerystrasse 2.”

“Good God! That’s a residential quarter, isn’t it?” Garth exclaimed, looking up and over his shoulder.

“Nothing but five-storey blocks of flats,” Mitchell muttered in response.

“Better inform the CO. God knows how the Berliners will react to this,” Garth ordered.

While Mitchell moved towards a telephone, Kathleen, with no in-bound traffic for another five minutes, stood and went into the main room of the tower. It offered a gloomy vista in shades of grey from the low cloud to the wet pavement and the waiting aircraft. Everything continued with surreal normality. There were no sirens, no flashing lights, no one was running about. The aircraft stood at hardstandings or oozed along the taxiways.

Yet she sensed something more. Out there, all around them, were crashed aircraft. The bones of the 5% lost on every raid to Berlin. Ken’s Lancaster was among them. He’d gone down into the fiery inferno he had helped ignite, and his body along with those of his crewmates had been completely consumed.

Yet his spirit still haunted the mists. She sensed his presence at odd moments, particularly in weather like this. Sometimes she had the feeling that he wanted to tell her something. Today was different. Today they had simply gathered to welcome new colleagues to their macabre club. She shuddered.