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| "Not bad, you
worshipfulness. Remember, all your senses must be alert all the time in the air. No matter
what the book says, trust your ears when it comes to the engines. Now lets see if you have
the proper touch!" He pushed forward on the stick, diving the plane. The ground was rushing up at them. "Well, get us out of this one, your worshipfulness." Survivors, April 1945 Sunrise. Lady Mary and her copilot had been ferrying a weaponless Lancaster from Luton Airfield, north of London, to Belgium. Now, as "volunteers", they were en route to pick up an Allied Unconventional Warfare Team cut off in occupied Eastern Holland. Strictly a no-go for ferry pilots, especially "Ata-girls," the higher ups had agreed to this mission - reluctantly. No one |
else was within reach, and they badly needed the
intelligence the team had gathered. When the aircraft arrived on station, Lady Mary’s eyes sought and found the runway, marked as it was by muzzle flashes and mortar explosions. To make the pick up or not was her choice. But having come this far, she knew there was no turning back. She made a steep approach. The new sun had not risen above the trees yet, and there was no light except for the grass fires started by the ongoing battle. The Lancaster touched down almost tentatively, the cockpit crew gluing their eyes to the surface of the runway. The dirt field, previously as an emergency landing site for the Luftwaffe, had never seen service. In the interim it had become a rabbit warren - a far more risky hazard to the landing gear than the sporadic small arms and mortar fire winging around them. |
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