大象传媒

This story is submitted with the permission of the author, Arnold Hawthorn, on behalf of Age Concern Durham County.

Returning from a target in Chemnitz the bomber 'Friday the Thirteenth' of which I was the engineer, we lost the starboard engine, which therefore had to be feathered, while further problems due to heavy icing only made matters worse. The decision was made to rise above the clouds. Although the tops of the clouds could be seen, it wasn't possible to climb above them, consequently we tried to go below. The pilot asked the navigator for the highest ground on the route home, the answer being 1500ft the Skipper decided to go down to 2000ft to clear the ice from the aeroplane. Then as we were flying happily along the rear gunner complained that he could see telegraph poles and houses flashing past! We re-entered the clouds as quickly as possible, after discussion the Skipper decided to slowly descend until clear of the clouds to verify the altitude. After a few minutes the same sight was seen again, but this time it was seen not only by the gunner but the whole crew! So once again we had no alternative but to re-enter the clouds. A third attempt was made to escape the icy clouds, this time the Skipper saw a light shining ahead and decided to take a fix on this point. As it came closer it turned out to be a cyclist who quickly jumped off his bike and into a nearby ditch! The resulting tactic was to fly just below the clouds while the whole crew kept a sharp eye out for any obstructions.

Eventually the clouds became less icy and intense, so the plane could rise to a reasonable height on the way to the French coast. Before reaching this destination I noticed that the fuel gauges were reading almost zero, not wanting to bail out on such a night, I carefully avoided mentioning it to the Skipper, the reason being I thought my own fuel calculations were accurate and that there was sufficient fuel to return home. Half way across the channel I decided to tell the Skipper. As I was casually eating an orange, I remarked 'this is a smashing old kite,' to which he replied 'yes, this is a grand old... what do you mean?' then I told him, 'well we've been flying for the last few minutes with empty tanks!' he immediately erupted and cursed me, then asked the navigator for the location of the nearest airfield. He was told Blackbush near Reading. So on reaching the English coast we turned west for Blackbush, the weather conditions were still atrocious with mist and rain, nothing could be seen. The Skipper chose to use a short wave radio to contact the airfield at Blackbush, but as a shock to us, all we heard was German, much to the consternation of the whole crew! We tried again but with the same result, by this time even I was getting worried about the fuel situation. Eventually, after trying Blackbush yet again we heard the voice of female operator still asking for, 'aircraft calling Blackbush say again please,' the Skipper tried again a number of times with the same results. After some minutes we saw a glow in the sky which we hoped was Blackbush and as we got closer we realised with relief that it was the lights of the airfield runway. And the operator was still calling 'aircraft calling Blackbush say again please.' With numerous curses, that only a Canadian skipper could come out with, he replied that he was coming in anyway as there was no fuel left to circle the airfield with. Finally we landed after a sharp manoeuvre and taxied to a dispersal area just in time as the engines cut out from lack of fuel! The crew were invited to go to the mess but, as I was in the doghouse, I was angrily turned away.

The following morning I was told to service the plane and when asked if I could drive I replied yes, although not being a driver, a petrol bowser and trailer were pointed out to me and I was told to refuel the aircraft. After sorting out the ten gears I managed to drive to the plane without accident but with a few close shaves. The rest of the crew were sent back to the squadron whilst I was left to see to a new engine which was flown down, mounted, and then I was allowed back to the squadron.

5/3/1945 Arnold Hawthorn, engineer of the Halifax Bomber, 'Friday the Thirteenth.'

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