Air Safety

On inspection, our Wellington, callsign Q for Queenie, proved to be a Leigh Light model, developed for antisubmarine warfare duties. The light in its belly was reputed to give one million candlepower. Enemy U-boats had to surface at night to recharge their batteries, during which time the crew would take turns to come on deck for some much needed fresh air. The sound of an approaching Wellington’s engines was difficult to hear over the noise of the submarine’s diesels, usually enabling the aircraft to home in on its target undetected. When the light was switched on, its sudden blinding glare would be devastating to the U-boat crew on deck, a crash dive often leaving them struggling in the water. And even if the depth charging that followed was ineffective in actually sinking the submarine, attacks by Leigh Light equipped Wellingtons served to deter U-boats from the area they patrolled.

Our flight to Oujda was without incident and we planned an early morning takeoff for the next leg to Tripoli. It was common practice to carry authorised passengers on these ferry flights, and we were to take an American aircraft man with us to Cairo. Late that night, I was awakened by Max White, a RAAF pilot from Brisbane like myself, who told me he had his Flight Commander’s permission to accompany us to Cairo too – he needed a haircut! I was unaware of any lack of tonsorial artists in Morocco, but any excuse would apparently do! Max was flying singles and his delivery flights had come to a temporary halt pending the arrival of more fighters from the UK.

During the flight from Oujda to Tripoli for our next overnight stop, we overtook a USAF B-17 which also planned to stop over there. Our Wimpy cruised at about 165 knots (305kmh) unladen which, surprisingly, was faster than the Fortress, but our American passenger asked if we had any objection to his flying on to Cairo the following day with his own countrymen. An unfortunate decision as things turned out. The airport at Tripoli had been named Castel Benito after Italy’s infamous wartime leader. Now in the hands of the Allies, its maintenance crews rectified any serviceability problems, as well as carrying out routine inspections and refuelling. When we turned up at our Wimpy in the morning, the servicing crew told us that part of the filler cap for the oil reservoir of one engine had unfortunately dropped into the tank – it would be hazardous to fly without first recovering it.

The trouble was that the filler cap aperture was fairly small. Bent wire, and then a magnet on a string were duly tried, but both failed to retrieve the errant part. “What about Jock?” one astute erk finally suggested. Apparently Jock was a small, thin Scot. He was on leave in the town, but further enquiries elicited he was due back at midday. The usually fine desert weather was deteriorating with cloud and rain threatening, but we had no alternative but to wait. Like the conscientious servicemen he was, Jock duly reported back on time and was immediately whisked out to our waiting Wimpy. His arm bared, he was able to reach in through the filler cap neck and feel in the oil for the lost piece. To his triumph and our great relief, he found it and drew it out.

Repairs having been completed, we prepared at last for departure. By now heavy rain was falling, and our takeoff seemed more like that of a flying boat. Setting course for our next port of call at El Adem, the airfield to the south of Tobruk some 570nm (1055km) distant, we climbed steadily through the rain, encountering quite severe turbulence. But all our attempts to climb into the clear on top proved in vain. Instead we wallowed along among the cloud tops at around 10,000 feet. These special purpose antisubmarine Wellingtons were not intended to fly high, their engines being (in the terminology of the day) “derated” – in other words, they were not fitted with superchargers, so 10,000 feet was about their effective ceiling.

Hours later, despite the conditions and thanks to Dan Christensen’s navigation, we were over El Adem right on ETA. In the limited visibility from 1000 feet there appeared to be two recently wrecked aircraft on the field – one at the end of the runway, and the other to one side – and we began to realise that the wild weather we were encountering was no ordinary storm. As we had no radio contact with the ground here, we did several runs over the field to try and get an estimate of wind speed and direction. If this was in any way accurate, the wind was blowing so hard it explained the two prangs. Any attempt to land in these conditions, especially with the large keel surface of a Wellington, would be equally disastrous.

Heavy rain was hardly a regular occurrence in the Western Desert and weather patterns usually covered only a relatively small area. The forecast we were given before leaving Castel Benito simply read “locally rising sand”, with no mention of rain. From previous experience we reckoned on being able to run on through the weather without any problem. The odds were we would arrive at our next check point – simply known as LG (landing ground) 40 – as planned. It was too late to turn back anyway. So onward to Cairo!

Not long after leaving El Adem we encountered very heavy rain, the water leaking past the seals of our windscreen. As we flew further east the rain gradually eased but we were surprised to see that the leaks had become rivulets of muddy water. The reason was soon apparent: we were leaving the rain behind and flying into heavy dust. Visibility was now nil. As we flew on and on without any sign of a break, I became increasingly concerned about what the weather pattern might be doing to our altimeter reading. We were now over the Libran Plateau and I really needed to know our true terrain clearance. A few days previously I had been reading an article on erroneous altimeter readings as a recipe for disaster. A USAF C-47 carrying 23 passengers and crew had flown into the side of the Atlas Mountains in northern Morocco and there were no survivors. An altimeter showing an optimistic reading was suggested as a cause. If we were now flying into a deep “low”, our altimeter could be over-reading too – the last time I set it was just before takeoff from Castel Benito. Our radio was ineffective in the existing conditions, so obtaining an updated QFE was out of the question.

I got Chris to work out a course that would take us out over the Mediterranean itself, and when well clear of the coast by dead reckoning, I cautiously let down through the all-pervading dust until the sea became visible. It did so at a height I estimated to be about 100 feet. The altimeter was reading 500 feet – a dangerous discrepancy. Climbing back into the murk again, we set course for the airfield at Cairo West, hoping we would run into clear conditions before we reached our destination. Chris studied our list of radio beacons and finally succeeded in tuning Cairo West on our radio compass.

As we flew closer to our destination, we could hear the aerodrome controllers trying to make contact with other aircraft in the area. The dust was still as dense as it had been further west, and though we called them up too, we were no more successful in making contact than the other crews. Thanks to the dust and sand in the atmosphere, the voices sounded like Donald Duck after a session on Cypress gin. But even if it had been possible to have an intelligible exchange with the controllers, there would have been no way they could have ensured us a safe landing. After several fruitless passes over the Cairo West beacon, we discussed our next move. The combination of nil visibility, high winds, limited fuel and approaching nightfall was becoming fearful. If the storm persisted, and there was no indication of any change, an attempted landing could be almost suicidal. And bailing out into a 70 knot (170kmh) wind could be almost as hazardous as jumping from the aircraft without a parachute.

Alternative destinations? We did not have the fuel to go back to Castel Benito. Lydda, in what was then Palestine, we ruled out because it was probably affected by the storm too. To the south on the Nile there were no landing grounds we were familiar with and we had no charts of this area. The only possibility was Cyprus, but it was a long way and over water. We decided to fly north over the Nile Delta to the shore of the Mediterranean, gradually reducing height until the sea became visible again, then attempt to pick up the coast and try for a landing on a beach. Failing this, we would attempt a ditching in shallow water, just offshore. The ever resourceful Chris provided the course again.

At times I thought I could see the ground through the dust and was tempted to reduce height to investigate. For a brief moment at one stage, I could see one of the channels of the Nile, but it was nearly my undoing. “Never try to fly visually and on instruments at the same time” I had been told on numerous occasions. (It has been the downfall of many a pilot). In my excitement at seeing something more substantial than a wall of dust, I ignored that very sound advice. In less time than it takes to tell, we were slipping, wing down, towards the water! With control wheel hard over and back, we cleared the river by a few feet, and heart thumping, settled back to straight and level flying on instruments. Barely recovered from this near calamity, we skimmed the top of a steel pylon carrying high tension wires, its structure nearly invisible in the dust. Too close for comfort! This finally reconciled me to adhering to our plan; we pushed on northwards at what we hoped was a safer height.

With only a few minutes to go to our ETA for the coast, a real break in the murk suddenly appeared. A few hundred metres long, it crossed our path more or less at right angles; moreover, from the brief glimpse we were able to get, the ground below was relatively flat and obstacle free! We turned back on to a reciprocal heading. The break in the dust was still there, but we had no idea of wind speed and direction. Setting the directional gyro, I flew the length of the break and there did not seem to be any indication of a crosswind. I decided to set the Wimpy down while we had the chance. Once beyond the end of the break we were back in the blinding dust. With no visibility, I carried out a circuit on instruments and was relieved on straightening up on “final” that our approach looked straight down the length of the break!

Wheels still up, but with propellers in fine pitch and full flap, the Wimpy rapidly lost height. Suddenly, to our dismay and alarm, we saw there was a sandhill ahead – we hadn’t seen it during our brief pass. With throttles wide again, propellers howling in full fine pitch, and control column right back, we somehow staggered over it. Power off again quickly and the Wimpy lost speed, settled, and slid on to the loose sand on its belly, coming to rest quickly but smoothly – my best landing for some time!

Quickly abandoning ship, the three of us surveyed Q for Queenie as she lay there like a wounded bird. Throughout the whole ordeal, our passenger Max White had shown no sign of being perturbed. He simply relaxed in the wireless operator’s seat, reading a book, leaving it to sit with his back against the bulkhead only when we were approaching to land. When there was no sign of fire, we came closer to see what we had done to the Wimpy. The belly was ripped out and it seemed unlikely that the Leigh Light would be of further assistance to the Allied cause. The laminated wooden propellers were smashed, with pieces flung across the sand. The batteries were intact, pleasing us that we would have light for the night. The IFF (identification friend or foe) radio still worked, so we sent distress signals. We also tried the aircraft’s TR9 equipment, but none of us being trained wireless operators, our skills were not up to the task.

Our first thoughts were to make ourselves as comfortable as circumstances would permit and we found that the engine covers made a passable bed. Dinner was hardly going to be an a la carte affair. Thanks to the long delay in our departure from Castel Benito, we had skipped lunch and were beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, and now to our chagrin, we found the emergency rations were missing. But we did discover half a packet of biscuits, and found that the aircraft’s 10 gallon tank of drinking water was full.

Our plan was for Chris and Max to head south early in the morning, armed with the hand held compass that was part of the Wimpy’s emergency kit. Just on daylight I watched them fade into the haze. The wind of yesterday had eased, but by late in the morning it was blowing quite strongly again, making it unwise for me to move far from the aircraft. To occupy my time I first of all tried my skills with the turret guns, firing at a 50 cigarette tin lying in the sand about 50 metres away. With practice and ample ammunition, two bursts were sufficient to make the tin leap in the air. During the day a cattle egret visited me, taking shelter under the wing – obviously it didn’t like the sand storm either. And I had time to become familiar with most of the gear in the aircraft, which normally we had little opportunity to investigate. Then I examined the broken off pieces of the propellers which made an interesting pattern in the sand out to one side of the fuselage, some slivers lying up to a hundred metres away. Bigger chunks had been thrown through the side of the fuselage itself, luckily making their entry below the cockpit. The gaping holes showed that anyone in their line of fire would have been badly hurt.

Throughout the day the wind continued to blow, creating what looked like a row of small smokestacks on the top of the sandhill we had leapfrogged during our last moments of flight. Walking up to examine them, I found that two furrows could be discerned on the very crest, obviously where our exhausts had blown away the sand as we scraped over it at full power. It had been a near thing! On the second morning I walked about two kilometres to the south to have a look around. The flat sandy plain on which we had come down was puzzling, because there were indications that ordered rows of trees had once covered it. In similar rows were pieces of large earthenware water pots. It seemed that a long past attempt to establish an orchard – or perhaps an olive grove – had failed, and the desert had reclaimed the area.

As the day passed I began to wonder how Chris and Max had fared on their lonely trek to seek help. My concern now was more than altruistic – I had eaten the few remaining biscuits and was getting very hungry! Late in the afternoon I thought I could see human figures on the skyline in the far distance, but then they vanished. Was it a mirage? But later they reappeared, much closer. It was Chris, leading a rescue party of three RAF personnel and two Egyptian civilians!

An official Inquiry was held at RAF Headquarters, Middle East, at which we gave our version of the sandstorm and the action we had taken. No blame was attached to us and it was agreed that what we had done was appropriate. We were given to understand that some 60 aircraft were lost or damaged during the few days the storm raged, but no RAF personnel were killed or injured. Some of the stories verged on fantasy. One RAF pilot was caught above his desert airfield late in the day in zero visibility. After considering a number of options, knowing the surrounding country was flat and generally free of obstructions, he decided to lose height as slowly as possible, just above stalling speed. To his enormous relief, he finally touched down on level ground almost into wind and quickly rolled to a stop. Because the sandstorm was so severe, he decided to stay inside the aircraft overnight. When morning came he was amazed to find he was in the airfield’s parking area with other aircraft nearby.

But some of the Americans were not so lucky. An article entitled Incident over the Sphinx in one of their service publications reported: “When the fuel gauges of a B-17 showed empty all round, the pilot ordered the crew to bail out, each man carrying a knife to cut himself free of his chute when he hit the ground. One after another, they whirled into the storm until, reluctant to leave their ship, only the pilot and copilot remained aboard. Just before they bailed out, they set the automatic pilot to carry the ship away from the ancient city, intending it to crash harmlessly in the desert. Making a belly landing in a 20 ton aeroplane, even under the best conditions, is no easy job. But making such a landing in a sandstorm of hurricane violence, including running out of gas at the precise moment the throttles had to be cut, and without a human being at the controls, is as close to being an impossibility as anything is likely to be. Yet that is what the B-17 did! When the storm abated, an Arab farmer found her resting on his land – a 40,000 pound [18,160kg] visitor from the skies. Most of the men who baled out of the Fortress were unable to free themselves from their parachutes in the violent wind and fighting gallantly, were dragged to their death across miles of abrasive sand.”

We heard that the young American airman we had flown part of the way from North Africa was among those lost. Incidentally, soon after returning to Rabat, Chris applied for a posting to “an active unit” and left us to join a Dakota squadron whose task was to drop supplies to partisans in northern Italy and Yugoslavia. He was posted missing on his first operation, and I lost a good and capable friend. And what of Q for Queenie? We never heard what her fate was. Maybe her skeleton still lies where we put her down, resting undisturbed in the desert sand.