CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Had Sweet been able to inspect his own complexion at close quarters at that moment, he would have detected the faint bluish skin-pallor that warns of anoxia. His connexion had torn and he was getting very little oxygen into his face mask. The symptoms are an ebullient feeling of well-being and optimism far beyond that warranted by circumstances. Anoxia is a little like being cosily intoxicated.
Theoretically Sweet was right about the burning wing: at normal temperatures the fuel-air mixture in any partially full fuel tank is too rich to ignite. But the port outer tank of his Lancaster was not at normal temperature. At 20,000 feet, this summer’s night was very cold and so too were the aircraft and its fuel-load.
The ragged edge of vapour fire trailing aft of the tank had done nothing to raise its temperature. Inside the tank the less volatile particles of fuel had condensed and thus weakened the fuel-air mixture. This is where the theory went wrong: the fuel was not only inflammable but highly explosive.
The rubber seal at the damaged aft edge of the tank had been on fire for several minutes. As it melted, burning rubber dribbled through the broken seam. The petrol splashing about inside (in spite of the baffles) doused the first few smouldering dribbles but finally an extra large one was sucked in by the vibrating seam. It produced the perfect conditions for an explosion.
Sweet thought that it was a direct hit by a flak shell. He would never change his mind. The concussion smashed much of the canopy Perspex and threw him sideways against his harness. The control column and rudder bar were momentarily wrenched out of his hands. Sweet was not sure what damage had been done, but Murphy, who had been expecting such an explosion, guessed exactly what had happened.
When the 114-gallon fuel tank exploded this broke the wing at the port outer engine. At the same time it fractured that engine’s main girder at its point of attachment under the wing and partially severed a support at the wing’s leading edge. Lacking that support, the burning engine began to buffet violently and within fifteen seconds it too tore itself away from what remained of the main plane. When the section of wing broke away the Lancaster continued for half a minute in an only slightly curving line. Then, its engine gone, the balance changed drastically. Lightened by the loss of the great twelve-cylinder Merlin the port wing tilted upwards. Gathering momentum, the huge bomber was beginning a roll. Sweet and Murphy put all their weight behind the control column but the port aileron and the section of wing attached to it had floated off into the darkness. The starboard aileron was little more than rags. Without ailerons to correct its antics Sweet and Murphy watched thunderstruck while half a dozen tiny orange spiders crawled up the starboard window and continued their movement over the clear Perspex roof and, faster now, hurried down the port window. That was Altgarten on fire. Each spider was half a city block blazing furiously. The huge aeroplane had rolled completely over.
Murphy had grabbed for his parachute and clipped it on as the plane began its roll. He knew that it must continue now. It would roll faster until centrifugal force made it impossible to escape from the bomber. Already his knees had buckled and he felt his whole weight pressing against the cockpit floor and forcing him down towards the step in the nose position several feet below. Gripping the edge of the trunking around the throttle controls and projecting formers and metal edges, he dragged himself towards the black rectangle of night, kicking the fixtures of the folding seat to help him along. Once his broad shoulders were pinned over the edge of the bomb-bay housing, centrifugal force threw him head-first into the bomb aimer’s position. His oxygen tube and microphone lead were throttling him. He tore them off his head but not before hearing Sweet say, ‘No need to panic, I’ve got her.’
Already the Lancaster, with engines roaring, was beginning its second roll. It was moving faster now. The coloured lights and flames came nearer the transparent nose; she was tipping over into a spin. Frantically he bent his knees to get his boot-heel against the flat front of the bomb-bay. Panic-stricken, he kicked himself against the stiff airstream that smashed at him like an invisible sledge-hammer. Inch by inch and using every ounce of strength his leg muscles could give, he forced his body lower. The edge of the hatch bit into his body and caught every belt and buckle of his harness. Sweating and almost exhausted, his last kick got him into the black cold night. The centrifugal force threw him in a curve. As the curving fall flattened he found that he himself was spinning head over heels in a crouching position, his face close against his knees. He knew that he must not open his parachute until the spinning body stopped, but it did not stop. He waited for what seemed like an hour, until the lights flashing past him were dangerously close, and then he pulled the rip-cord anyway. The canopy and lines tumbled out of the brown-canvas cover, striking him in the face. He recoiled with the shock of the blow so that on the next revolution his feet did not go right through the support straps. Instead he was caught up in the harness by one boot. He kicked at it again but was unable to get free. He was frightened to kick too energetically in case he fouled the lines of the parachute and ‘candled’. Cradled in his tangled harness like a baby in a stork’s bill, Murphy floated gently down towards the stricken town. Once a searchlight passed across him and for a moment the silk canopy was blinding white. Murphy remembered a childhood prayer and said it aloud.
Sweet saw no reason for the engineer to go grovelling across the floor in abject panic. Sweet had been in plenty of spins. At elementary flying school it was a mandatory exercise. He didn’t worry that the rate of spins was increasing, for he knew that the faster the spin the more air-speed he had and therefore the easier it was to regain control. He let the orange spiders come round again. By now they were dancing across the windscreen and he knew that his dive was almost vertical. Calmly he put his weight on one side of the rudder bar with both feet. He guessed it would need a lot of muscle, so he jabbed hard. There were no port ailerons and precious little port wing by now. Sweet fell forward, barked his knees and cut his knuckle. ‘Damn,’ he said mildly. He knew now beyond a shadow of a doubt that he must get out. The huge aeroplane was spiralling earthwards, its structure rattling and screaming. There were sounds of snapping metal. The altimeter needle was revolving backwards at a frightening speed. His hands were heavy weights that pressed upon his chest but he managed to remove his torn gloves to get at his harness and slowly he undid the strap. He checked that his parachute was correctly fastened and decided to get out by the nose-hatch. Statistically the nosehatch was safest.
It was bloody silly, but he couldn’t get up. He pushed and pulled and wriggled, but he couldn’t get up. The force of gravity was pressing him to his seat so that his weight was beyond his strength to lift. There was a weight upon his head that gave him a double chin and made him feel sick. His blood, pressed downward out of his brain, dimmed his vision. Ridiculous. He had so much to live for: fit and handsome, he had a medal, two girlfriends (one with a flat in London), a little private income (his shares were doing nicely), promotion due in August, lots of good friends among the chaps. Why couldn’t he get up out of his seat? His vision grew even darker as the increasing gravitational force of the spin drained his brain of its blood.
When Lancaster ‘S Sugar’ hit Frau Kersten’s farm it made a crater thirty feet across and in places eight feet deep. The largest remaining part of it was the tail section that landed two hundred yards away. The rear gunner—killed in the initial attack—was still in his turret, which broke off before the impact. The forward part of the fuselage had hit the side wall of the farmhouse and demolished the whole building. Broken bricks and chunks of plaster almost covered torn and scorched paper money and coins that glinted in the light of torches. Saucepans were mixed with altimeters, bedheads with fuel lines, and pieces of Frau Kersten and her French soldier were intimately mingled with Flight Lieutenant Sweet. There were tattered ailerons, bent flaps. One hot twelve-cylinder engine had drawn a scorched furrow across the grass and lopped a tree. Another had turned the cowshed into a butcher’s shop. There was a stink of burned oil and hot carbon and the red-hot metal pieces tinkled like sleigh bells. Among the personal effects found in the wreckage there were an ivory-handled knife with a cigar-cutting device, a warm bunch of keys, the bomb aimer’s left boot and a torn flying helmet with ‘Murphy’ written on it in nail-varnish.
Bodo Reuter and his lorryful of TENO men arrived on the scene of the crash fifteen minutes after it had happened. He organized a search to be sure that no diaries, log books or radio equipment had fallen clear of the main impact points. Fuchs Ueberall and another TENO man found an RAF flyer tangled into a tree only a hundred and fifty yards from the crash. He was a burly figure who smiled nervously when challenged. The two TENO men killed him with their spades.