“Now advance your propeller settings,” Treleaven was saying, “so that the tachometers give a reading of twenty-two fifty r.p.m. on each engine. Don’t acknowledge.”
“Twenty-two fifty,” Spencer repeated to himself, watching the dials closely as he made the adjustment. “Janet,” he said, “Let me hear the air speed.”
“It’s 130…” she began tonelessly, “125… 120…125… 130….”
In the control tower Treleaven listened on his headphones to the steady voice from the radar room. “Height is still unsteady. Nine hundred feet.”
“George,” said Treleaven, “let your air speed come back to 120 knots and adjust your trim. I’ll repeat that. Air speed 120.” He looked down at his watch. “Take it nice and easy, now.”
“Still losing height,” reported the radar operator. “800 feet… 750… 700….”
“You’re losing height!” rapped out Treleaven. “You’re losing height. Open up — open up! You must keep at around one thousand.”
Janet continued her reading of the air speed:
“110… 110… 105… 110… 110… 120… 120… 120… steady at 120…”
“Come up… come up!” gritted Spencer between his teeth, hauling on the control column. “What a lumbering, great wagon this is! It doesn’t respond! It doesn’t respond at all.”
“125… 130… 130… steady on 130….”
“Height coming up to 900 feet,” intoned the radar operator. “950… on 1,000 now. Maintain 1,000.”
Treleaven called to the tower controller, “He’s turning on to final. Put out your runway lights, except zero- eight.” He spoke into the microphone. “Straighten out on a heading between 074 and 080. Watch your air speed and your height. Keep at a thousand feet until I tell you.”
In one series after another, the strings of lights half-sunken into the grass beside the runways flicked off, leaving just one line on either side of the main landing strip.
“Come out of your turn, George, when you’re ready,” said Treleaven, “and line up with the runway you’ll see directly ahead of you. It’s raining, so you’ll want your windshield wipers. The switch is down at the right on the copilot’s side and is clearly marked.”
“Find it, Janet,” said Spencer.
“Hold your height at a thousand feet, George. We’ve taken you a long way out, so you have lots of time. Have Janet look for the landing light switch. It’s in the panel overhead, a little left of center. Hold your height steady.”
“Can you find the switch?” asked Spencer.
“Just a minute… yes, I’ve got it.”
Spencer stole a quick look ahead. “My God,” he breathed. The lights of the runway, brilliant pinpoints in the blue-gray overcast of dawn, seemed at this distance to be incredibly narrow, like a short section of railway track. He freed one hand for an instant to dash it across his eyes, watering from their concentration.
“Correct your course,” said Treleaven. “Line yourself up straight and true. Hold that height, George. Now listen carefully. Aim to touch down about a third of the way along the runway. There’s a slight cross wind from the left, so be ready with gentle right rudder.” Spencer brought the nose slowly round. “If you land too fast, use the emergency brakes. You can work them by pulling the red handle immediately in front of you. And if that doesn’t stop you, cut the four ignition switches which are over your head.”
“See those switches, Janet?”
“Yes.”
“If I want them off it’ll be in a hurry,” said Spencer. “So if I shout, don’t lose any time about it.” His throat was parched; it felt full of grit.
“All right,” Janet replied in a whisper. She clasped her hands together to stop them shaking.
“It won’t be long now, anyway. What about the emergency bell?”
“I hadn’t forgotten. I’ll ring it just before touchdown.”
“Watch that air speed. Call it off.”
“120… 115… 120….”
“Begin descent,” said the radar operator. “400 feet a minute. Check landing gear and flaps. Hold present heading.”
“All right, George,” said Treleaven, “put down full flap. Bring your air speed back to 115, adjust your trim, and start losing height at 400 feet a minute. I’ll repeat that. Full flap, air speed 115, let down at 400 feet a minute. Hold your present heading.” He turned to Grimsell. “Is everything ready on the field?”
The controller nodded. “As ready as we’ll ever be.”
“Then this is it. In sixty seconds we’ll know.”
They listened to the approaching whine of engines. Treleaven reached out and took a pair of binoculars the controller handed him.
“Janet, give me full flap!” ordered Spencer. She thrust the lever down all the way. “Height and air speed — call them off!”
“1,000 feet… speed 130… 800 feet, speed 120… 700 feet, speed 105. We’re going down too quickly!”
“Get back that height!” Treleaven shouted. “Get back! You’re losing height too fast.”
“I know, I know!” Spencer shouted back. He pushed the throttles forward. “Keep watching it!” he told the girl.
“650 feet, speed 100… 400 feet, speed 100….”
Eyes smarting with sweat in his almost feverish concentration, he juggled to correlate speed with an even path of descent, conscious with a deep, sickening terror of the relentless approach of the runway, nearer with every second. The aircraft swayed from side to side, engines alternately revving and falling.
Burdick yelled from the tower balcony, “Look at him! He’s got no control!”
Keeping his glasses leveled at the oncoming aircraft, Treleaven snapped into the microphone, “Open up! Open up! You’re losing height too fast! Watch the air speed, for God’s sake. Your nose is too high — open up quickly or she’ll stall! Open up, I tell you,
“He’s heard you,” said Grimsell. “He’s recovering.”
“Me too, I wish,” said Burdick.
The radar operator announced, “Still 100 feet below glide path. 50 feet below glide path.”
“Get up — up,” urged Treleaven. “If you haven’t rung the alarm bell yet, do it now. Seats upright, passengers’ heads down.”
As the shrill warning rang out in the aircraft, Baird roared at the top of his voice, “Everybody down! Hold as tight as you can!”
Crouched double in their seats, Joe and Hazel Greer, the sports fans, wrapped their arms round each other, quietly and composedly. Moving clumsily in his haste, Childer tried to gather his motionless wife to him, then hurriedly leaned himself across her as far as he could. From somewhere midship came the sob-racked sound of a prayer and, further back, an exclamation from one of the rye-drinking quartet of, “God help us — this is it!”
“Shut up!” rapped ’Otpot. “Save your breath!”
In the tower, Grimsell spoke into a telephone-type microphone. “All fire-fighting and salvage equipment stand fast until the aircraft has passed them. She may swing.” His voice echoed back metallically from the buildings.
“He’s back up to 200 feet,” reported radar. “Still below glide path. 150 feet. Still below glide path. He’s too low, Captain. 100 feet.”
Treleaven dragged off the headset. He jumped to his feet, holding the microphone in one hand and the binoculars in the other.
“Maintain that height,” he instructed, “until you get closer in to the runway. Be ready to ease off gently… Let down again… That looks about right…”
“Damn the rain,” cursed Spencer. “I can hardly see.” He could make out that they were over grass. Ahead he had a blurred impression of the beginning of the runway.
“Watch the air speed,” cautioned Treleaven. “Your nose is creeping up.” There was a momentary sound of other voices in the background. “Straighten up just before you touch down and be ready to meet the drift with right rudder…. All right.. Get ready to round out…”
The end of the gray runway, two hundred feet across, slid under them.
“Now!” Treleaven exclaimed. “You’re coming in too fast. Lift the nose up! Get it up! Back up the throttles —
