left thumb.
"Charlie Delta, clear airfield, wheels up and locked, I said into my oxygen mask.
"Charlie Delta, roger, over to Channel D, said the controller, and then, before I could change radio channels added, Happy Christmas."
Strictly against the rules of radio procedure, of course. I was very young then, and very conscientious. But I replied, Thank you, Tower, and same to you. Then I switched channels to tune in to the R. A. F's North-Germany Air Control frequency.
Down on my right thigh was strapped the map with my course charted on it in blue ink, but I did not need it. I knew the details by heart, worked out earlier with the Navigation Officer in the Nay, hut. Turn overhead Celle airfield on to course 265 degrees, continue climbing to 27000 feet. On reaching height, maintain course and keep speed to 485 knots. Check in with Channel D to let them know you're in their airspace, then a straight run over the Dutch coast south of Beveland into the North Sea. After forty-four minutes flying time, change to Channel F and call Lakenheath Control to give you a steers. Fourteen minutes later you'll be overhead Lakenheath. After that, follow instructions, and they'll bring you down on a radio-controlled descent. No problem all routine procedures. Sixty-six minutes flying time, with the descent and landing, and the Vampire had enough fuel for over eighty minutes in the air.
Swinging over Celle airfield at 1.000 feet, I straightened up and watched the needle on my electric compass settle happily down on a course of z6~ degrees. The nose was pointing towards the black freezing vault of the night sky, studded with stars so brilliant they flickered their white fire against the eyeballs. Below, the black-white map of north Germany was growing smaller, the dark masses of the pine forests blending into the white expanses of the fields. Here and there a village or small town glittered with lights. Down there amid the gaily lit streets the carol singers would be out, knocking on the holly-studded doors to sing Silent Night and collect pfennzgs for charity. The Westphalian housewives would be preparing hams and geese.
Four hundred miles ahead of me the story would be the same, the carols in my own language but many of the tunes the same, and it would be turkey instead of goose. But whether you call it Weihnachten or Christmas, it's the same all over the Christian world, and it was good to be going home.
From Lakenheath I knew I could get a lift down to London in the liberty bus, leaving just after midnight; from London I was confident I could hitch a lift to my parents home in Kent. By breakfast time I'd be celebrating with my own family. The altimeter said 27000 feet. I eased the nose forward, reduced throttle setting to give me an airspeed of 485 knots, and held her steady on z6~ degrees. Somewhere beneath me in the gloom the Dutch border would be slipping away, and I had been airborne for twenty-one minutes. No problem.
The problem started ten minutes out over the North Sea, and it started so quietly that it was several minutes before I realized I had one at all. For some time I had been unaware that the low hum coming through my headphones into my ears had ceased, to be replaced by the strange nothingness of total silence. I must have been failing to concentrate, my thoughts being of home and my waiting family. The first thing I knew was when I flicked a glance downwards to check my course on the compass. Instead of being rock steady on 26~ degrees, the needle was drifting lazily round the clock, passing through east, west, south and north with total impartiality.
I swore a most unseasonal sentiment against the compass and the instrument fitter who should have checked it for 100 per cent reliability. Compass failure at night, even a brilliant moonlit night such as the one beyond the cockpit perspex, was no fun. Still, it was not too serious; I could call up Lakenheath in a few minutes, and they would give me a GCA Ground
"Charlie Delta, clear airfield, wheels up and locked, I said into my oxygen mask.
"Charlie Delta, roger, over to Channel D, said the controller, and then, before I could change radio channels added, Happy Christmas."
Strictly against the rules of radio procedure, of course. I was very young then, and very conscientious. But I replied, Thank you, Tower, and same to you. Then I switched channels to tune in to the R. A. F's North-Germany Air Control frequency.
Down on my right thigh was strapped the map with my course charted on it in blue ink, but I did not need it. I knew the details by heart, worked out earlier with the Navigation Officer in the Nay, hut. Turn overhead Celle airfield on to course 265 degrees, continue climbing to 27000 feet. On reaching height, maintain course and keep speed to 485 knots. Check in with Channel D to let them know you're in their airspace, then a straight run over the Dutch coast south of Beveland into the North Sea. After forty-four minutes flying time, change to Channel F and call Lakenheath Control to give you a steers. Fourteen minutes later you'll be overhead Lakenheath. After that, follow instructions, and they'll bring you down on a radio-controlled descent. No problem all routine procedures. Sixty-six minutes flying time, with the descent and landing, and the Vampire had enough fuel for over eighty minutes in the air.
Swinging over Celle airfield at 1.000 feet, I straightened up and watched the needle on my electric compass settle happily down on a course of z6~ degrees. The nose was pointing towards the black freezing vault of the night sky, studded with stars so brilliant they flickered their white fire against the eyeballs. Below, the black-white map of north Germany was growing smaller, the dark masses of the pine forests blending into the white expanses of the fields. Here and there a village or small town glittered with lights. Down there amid the gaily lit streets the carol singers would be out, knocking on the holly-studded doors to sing Silent Night and collect pfennzgs for charity. The Westphalian housewives would be preparing hams and geese.
Four hundred miles ahead of me the story would be the same, the carols in my own language but many of the tunes the same, and it would be turkey instead of goose. But whether you call it Weihnachten or Christmas, it's the same all over the Christian world, and it was good to be going home.
From Lakenheath I knew I could get a lift down to London in the liberty bus, leaving just after midnight; from London I was confident I could hitch a lift to my parents home in Kent. By breakfast time I'd be celebrating with my own family. The altimeter said 27000 feet. I eased the nose forward, reduced throttle setting to give me an airspeed of 485 knots, and held her steady on z6~ degrees. Somewhere beneath me in the gloom the Dutch border would be slipping away, and I had been airborne for twenty-one minutes. No problem.
The problem started ten minutes out over the North Sea, and it started so quietly that it was several minutes before I realized I had one at all. For some time I had been unaware that the low hum coming through my headphones into my ears had ceased, to be replaced by the strange nothingness of total silence. I must have been failing to concentrate, my thoughts being of home and my waiting family. The first thing I knew was when I flicked a glance downwards to check my course on the compass. Instead of being rock steady on 26~ degrees, the needle was drifting lazily round the clock, passing through east, west, south and north with total impartiality.
I swore a most unseasonal sentiment against the compass and the instrument fitter who should have checked it for 100 per cent reliability. Compass failure at night, even a brilliant moonlit night such as the one beyond the cockpit perspex, was no fun. Still, it was not too serious; I could call up Lakenheath in a few minutes, and they would give me a GCA Ground
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