Aristedes Caldeira gripped the control yoke with concern as he stared out at the landscape before him.
Chita was at relatively high altitude, but Canberra sat behind a range of hills, and suddenly it was there, before them. A sort of a white patch, amidst all the green surrounding.
“Keep an eye out for fighters,” Ari announced over the intercom. “Surely, they know we’re coming.” He scanned the plain below, finally locating the airfield that was their target. He could see little dots accelerating along the runway, far below them, and for just a moment a flash of hope suggested that maybe they had caught the defenders by surprise. But the fact that
some defending fighters were not off the ground yet did not signify that
no fighters were already in the air to threaten them.
“Manny, you have your target?” Ari checked.
“I see it, Captain. Straight and level over. I have the estimates on wind, so I’ll let you know when I release.” Manoel didn’t have to tell anyone when the bombs were released. The plane would lurch, and surge higher, from the loss of weight. But he was a thorough and redundant sort – exactly the kind of guy you wanted in a responsible position on an aircrew.
They were leading their flight of FW-200 Condors. They were the ones assigned to crater the runways at Canberra’s main military airfield. Ari scanned the nearby sky, as did Paolo, next to him.
Portuguese forces were closing in on Canberra from the east, and from the south. Australian forces were, presumably, rushing from the north. It was the Condors’ job to neutralize the defenses of Canberra, as they could. The airfield was one such target. Most of the others – the soldiers – they had little hope of touching. But installations and fortifications would be targeted on this and later runs.
But they were nervous. Never before had they so much certainty of enemy fighter opposition. Over Europe, he knew British and German crews were constantly under attack by enemy fighters. But they also had more guns on their planes, and friendly fighter escorts to at least distract, if not dissuade the enemy.
Portugal’s Condors had no fighter cover. Her country’s only fighters were tasked with defending the homeland, should another Royal Navy fleet appear off her shores.
But the chances of that, Ari reflected, had been reduced by the landing, finally, of German troops on the shores of Scotland. So long as the British were busy on their home islands, there was little likelihood of them reaching out to strike distant Portugal.
The tension was broken – and heightened – by the hissing crackle of a radio transmission from one of the other planes. “Kittyhawks! Five and six o’clock!” Ari unconsciously looked over his shoulder to the right, as if he could see them, but only Aaran, the navigator, was there, his feet visible, standing in his gunnery position.
These were the American-built P-40s, very like the ones being used by the Flying Tigers against the Japanese in China. Swift and deadly, they could spell death for Ari’s entire flight if they didn’t do everything by the book. Ari toggled the radio to broadcast to his flight, not just the internal intercom. “Close in the formation. Help each other out.”
“Twelve o’clock, too!” Aaran shouted over the intercom as his gun began to chatter.
Ari’s eyes went wide and snapped to focus ahead of them, just in time to see small black shapes resolve into larger black shapes, darting toward them. The onrushing planes’ wing roots were flashing with fire, and he pushed
Chita’s nose down to avoid what seemed like a likely collision. For good measure, he ducked too, as absurd as that was. One plane zipped barely overhead, and another flew by on the right, having targeted the Condor beside them in formation.
Slowly, Ari became aware of Paolo in distress. The roar of the plane’s engines covered whatever expressions of pain he made, but his face was frozen in a grimace as he strained against his harness, holding his leg with both hands. He writhed, in obvious agony.
“Aaran,” Ari called. “When you can pull away, Paolo needs your help!” Aaran Carvalho was the crewman with the most extensive medical training, though it was little beyond first aid. Despite his sitting beside Paolo in the cockpit, his own harness and the bulk of the throttle complex separated him physically from his good friend, so he couldn’t check on him himself. “Sound off – anyone else hurt?” The rest of his crew answered okay.
While trying to keep track of the resolving battle outside, Ari kept glancing over at his friend, praying, and willing him to hold on. He couldn’t see the wound. There was a vague impression of blood on the metal around his feet, but shadow kept it hidden.
Guns from the dorsal turret began firing – bursts, then a constant tattoo for a few seconds. An excited shouting on the radio indicated that one of the other Condors had been taken by a Kittyhawk. “We’re on fire! Bailing out!” Normally Ari could count on Paolo to keep his eye out on the starboard side of the aircraft, but now he was at a loss. He fought to see behind him out the port windows, but the only two planes he could see where still there.
“Vitor’s plane is going down, Captain,” reported gunner Afonso Esteves, from the back. “They’re hitting the silk.” After a few moments of silence, Afonso’s gun could be heard again, its staccato reports sounding suddenly frantic.
Chita suddenly shuddered under the impact of .50 caliber shells. Debris flew around the cockpit, briefly. A pilot’s sense brought Ari to try to look out the starboard windscreen at his engines, and he could see a lick of flame, though he couldn’t see the engine.
“Number three engine is on fire, Captain,” Aaran reported.
“Need you down here, Aaran!” Ari cried, but then immediately changed his mind. “Sorry, belay that… Stay where you are – I need your eyes on the engines.” Ari was frazzled – too much going on at once. He needed his partner, Paolo, to do half of his job, and he wasn’t able. He pressed the button to activate the engine’s fire extinguisher. “What did that do?” he asked.
“Er… It put a damper on the fire, but it’s still aflame.” Then Aaran added, “We’re dropping out of formation, Captain.”
“Can’t hold it,” Ari explained. He feathered Number 3, so it wouldn’t be causing drag. One charge left in the extinguisher, Ari thought, and if it didn’t work… He had another idea. Over the radio to the rest of the formation, he ordered, “Luis, we’re not going to make it to the target. You’re in command. Pray for us!” His friend acknowledged receipt of command.
Thus freed, Ari put the large plane into a steep, curving dive. “Afonso, tell me if any of those fighters chase after us!” This was risky – a lone, damaged plane would draw the attention of fighters, who could pick them off as a cheetah preyed on injured game. An ironic, and unfortunate, analogy for their own
”Chita.” Their only hope lay in the fighters believing they were already finished, since their engine was on fire.
“Captain, our bombs?” asked Manoel, from below.
“Get rid of them,” Ari ordered. He had the presence of mind, or sensitivity to add, “Sinto muito” – mumbled, but loud enough to be audible over the intercom. And he
was sorry – those bombs needed a target. But not as much as they needed to get home.
“Sim senhor.” That familiar lurch indicated that the plane had just shed 1,250 kilograms.
“No attention yet, Cap!” Afonso was his eyes and ears to the rear. This was so insanely frustrating! Having to gather a mental picture of what was going on around him – and even to his own plane! – through the descriptions of others. The relationship he had long held, for years, with his copilot – his right hand man, literally – was nearly psychic. Without that…..
The increased airspeed from their dive might force enough air through the damaged engine to put out the fire, or mostly so. “Aaran, any change?”
“The fire is burning strongly, Cap’n – fed by fuel.”
Ari groaned. That was one of those things Paolo would have taken care of – HAD taken care of, on more than one occasion when they’d been damaged. The problem was, he couldn’t shut off fuel to just that engine – he’d have to shut it off to both engines on the starboard wing – at least, temporarily – because one flowed through the system of the other… No choice – he did it. The plane slewed slowly, as all of its thrust began to transfer to the left wing only. The right wing dropped, unsupported by proper lift, and Ari had to counterbalance with pressure on the yoke as he quickly fiddled with the trimming wheels.
This was not sustainable –
Chita would never make it back on just two engines. He had to act quickly. He feathered Number 4, as it was spooling down, now, motivated only by the wind, not by hundreds of horsepower from the BMW engines. Ari glanced over, again, at Paolo, who was sweating and fatigued, and distressingly pale, but who seemed to be handling the pain better and coming more to himself. Still in no shape to be helping with this, he thought. Now what?
“How’s the fire, Aaran?”
“With the airspeed and the lack of fuel, it’s dying.”
Ari sighed with tension.
Got to get this right! He pressed the control button for the fire extinguisher on Number 3 again, and…. “Aaran?”
“Ahh… It’s good! I think… Yes, the fire seems to have gone out!”
“All right,” Ari acknowledged. “Keep an eye on it for a minute or two. Next comes the dangerous part…. Turning the fuel back on.” They’d never reach Melbourne without three engines, Ari calculated. Not at the rate they were losing altitude. He was sweating, now, too. If the fuel came back on again, flowing through the third engine toward the fourth, it could re-ignite the fire. If that happened, then they wouldn’t be flying home – they’d be bailing out over unfamiliar territory. Portuguese-controlled, so far as that went, but they were as likely to meet hostile farmers or settlers as friendly troops. This land was enormous, and Portugal only had so many men on the ground, here.
After a while, as the FW 200 trekked intrepidly toward home, Aaran’s voice came over the intercom again. “The smoke has lessened, and I haven’t seen flame for four full minutes.”
This was the moment. They were frighteningly close to the terrain below, now, though they still had altitude to bail out, if need be. “I’m going to try it. Watch it like a hawk!” With a final sigh, Ari flipped the switches for the fuel masters. He mouthed a fervent prayer to God, with the intercession of Santa Maria, and as many saints as he could think of. He pressed the starter button for the outboard engine, and felt the plane rattle as the engine turned over again.
“Number four is engaged again,” the navigator reported… “And I don’t see any flame! Smoke is a little heavier now – probably fuel hitting hot surfaces – but it’s not catching.”
Ari let out the breath he’d been saving.
Thanks be to God! He almost forgot to un-feather the Number 4 prop. He missed Paolo’s intimate understanding of what needed to be done, and the instant action he faithfully took. “Afonso, keep an eye on those starboard engines for me,” he instructed. “Aaran, come take a look at Paolo – he’s hurt bad, I think.”
Soon, the navigator was by his side, wrestling with the copilot’s seat to move it backward so he could get access. He undid his harness, and then Paolo screamed in pain when Aaran dragged him bodily, like a rag doll, from his seat and onto the small space on the floor behind the pilots’ seats. After a preliminary inspection, Aaran said, for both Ari’s and Paolo’s benefit, “This is a ticket home, Lieutenant! The tibia is shattered – your lower leg bone. But you’ll live. I’m going to have to put a tourniquet on to stop the bleeding.”
Inwardly, Ari cringed. The chances of Paolo keeping the leg, with a shattered tibia and a tourniquet cutting off blood to the leg were…. It was like cutting off fuel to the Number 4 engine. It would wither, and die. Probable amputation. But it couldn’t be helped. Ari took comfort in the thought that Paolo was probably in too much pain to realize this. Aaran gave him a painkiller from his kit, and liberally sprinkled sulfa powder over the visible wound. Then he set to tightening the cord that would probably kill his friend’s leg.
“Any fighters following, Afonso?”
“We’re safe, Cap’n – they’ve given us up for dead.”
Ari breathed a sigh of relief. “We played dead, and they bought it. It means we live!” A ragged cheer echoed over the intercom. “Everyone still with me?” The sound-off came back clear. Just Paolo… Poor Paolo. But at least he would recover. And go home!
And
Chita would live too. Her wing was broken, in a way, but it would heal. And she would fly again.
That was Ari’s victory for today. Their bombs hadn’t contributed to the war effort, but he had fought off death, for
Chita and her crew. And he was as proud of that as for all the ships they’d killed during this long, awful war.
They limped back toward Melbourne, and safety.