The Final Flight by James Blatch (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📗

a mile, he pulled into a lay-by, and cried.

25

Friday 1st July

The HQ building was quiet. Rob walked down the lime green corridor and peered into the offices.

The second to last door on the left was open. Group Captain Gordon McClair sat with his back to him.

“Ahem.”

McClair whipped around.

“Flight Lieutenant May.”

Rob saluted.

“Have a seat.”

As Rob sat down, he spotted his handwritten accident report on the desk, with notes in blue ink added at various points.

“Thank you for your observations, May. Very thorough and very useful. And thank you for your honesty about the moments leading to the crash. You’re in a rather unique position as the only survivor and I appreciate your candour. It will serve you well through this process.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, let us start at the beginning.”

For half an hour, Rob walked the chairman of the BOI through the Guiding Light project planning and execution. He explained the procedure of entering a low-level gate and how they handed over control to the system. For the moment of the crash, Rob slowed his explanation down, choosing his words carefully.

He explained how he had unfolded the chart, to ensure he could select a safe area for a climb back to one thousand feet.

“You were planning to ensure it would be a safe manoeuvre?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what were you looking for exactly? I mean, where would be an unsuitable place to ascend?”

“Well, you wouldn’t want to interrupt the autopilot if it was manoeuvring hard, which it often is at low-level. So somewhere flat below, ideally where you’re not climbing, descending or banking.”

McClair made a few notes. “I see. And is that the same for disengaging the system?”

Rob thought for a moment. “Yes. We select level flight usually before switching back to manual control.”

“What would be the result if you disengaged during a descent, for instance?”

“It’s not necessarily a terrible thing, but the aircraft would continue to descend unless you manually intervened. Which of course you would. You’d only disengage with your hands on the stick and throttle, ready.”

“Thank you, Flight Lieutenant. And just so I’m completely clear, squadron leader Johnson was the nominal handling pilot for this leg?”

“Yes. We still called it that, even though Guiding Light was actually handling the aircraft, it was your job to monitor and be ready to intervene.”

“But as you note here, Johnson was looking over to you at the time of the ground strike?”

Rob took his time. The memory was foggy and further blurred by the horror.

“I think he was looking at the chart, maybe to brief himself ahead of the climb out. But I’m not really sure why. I was about to brief him and give him a landmark.”

For the next twenty minutes, McClair pushed him on the final thirty seconds. Rob stuck to a flat monotone, treating the questions as an academic exercise, trying his best to distance his emotions.

But McClair’s questions made it hard.

“You communicated with Milford and Bright as they tried to escape? You saw them?”

“Yes, sir. We usually left the divider to the cockpit open, so I could turn back and see them.”

“Describe that to me, please.”

Rob looked down at the pen marks and scratches on the table. How many men had been through this before? How many bomber pilots in the war headed back down the aircraft to bail out, passing dead and mortally injured colleagues?

“Bright was out of his seat. He had his hands on the side of the compartment. Remember, we were upside down but still rolling. He hadn’t made any progress toward the hatch. He was pushed further away from it, as I looked. It was like a nightmare where you’re running through treacle trying to escape from someone.”

“And Squadron Leader Milford?”

Rob shook his head. “He looked paralysed. He just stared at me.” His voice finally broke.

McClair put his pen down. “Take your time, Flight Lieutenant. I know this must be hard.”

Rob took a few deep breaths.

“He was injured, a cut across his forehead. I think he was dazed. Even if the hatch was opened, Steve Bright would have had to manhandle him out.”

McClair made notes.

“I have just one more area I need to ask about. The timing of Squadron Leader Johnson’s ejection. Did you discuss it at all?”

Rob shook his head. “No. We barely said anything. It took me by surprise.”

“So he acted unilaterally?”

Rob nodded.

“Thank you, May. You’ve been most helpful. Do you have questions for me?”

“When will the report be ready?”

McClair shrugged. “We’ve only just begun the examination of the main wreckage, and I’ve an eye witness to speak to in Wales. After that we’ll put everything together, but it won’t be for some time, I’m afraid. You know how it is.” He shuffled his papers into a single pile. “But I don’t expect our conclusions to change.”

“I don’t suppose there’s anything else it could be.”

McClair furrowed his brow. “Has Wing Commander Kilton already spoken to you?”

“No. It’s just… It must have been Guiding Light.”

McClair leant back in his chair. “We wouldn’t normally discuss our early conclusions publicly, not that any of this will become public for some decades, of course, but Wing Commander Kilton is keen that I share our initial findings with you. I think he’s worried about your sense of guilt, being the only survivor.

“What I’m about to tell you is preliminary, but as I say, I will be very surprised if the conclusions change. Because of the sensitive nature of the project, we were required to retrieve the Guiding Light panels and equipment from the wreckage first. All of that has been thoroughly examined by technical experts at Farnborough with assistance from Blackton technicians. We are now certain of one fact. Guiding Light was not operational at the moment of ground strike.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Well, I’m not sure how familiar you are with the panel in the rear bay, but you might know there is a master switch. It was in the off position. So you see, you had a chart in front of you, not unreasonably planning ahead. Speedy took his