canopy was exposed entirely to the centre of the blast. It hit the
plane with a blow that sent it tumbling; like a running man tripping it
went over, and it lost life and flying capability.
The canopy was penetrated by flying steel. A piece struck David's
armoured seat with a clang and then it glanced off and struck his arm
above the elbow, snapping the bone cleanly so that the arm dropped
uselessly and hung into his lap.
An icy wind raged through the torn canopy as the Mirage hurled itself
through space with suicidal force, whipping its nose through the vicious
motions and flat plane of high-speed spin. David was thrown against his
straps, his ribs bruised and his skin smeared from his shoulders and the
broken arm flailing agonizingly.
He tried to hold himself upright in his seat as he reached up over his
head, caught hold of the handle of the ejector mechanism and hauled the
blind down over his face. He expected to have the charge explode
beneath his seat and hurl him free of the doomed Mirage, but nothing
happened.
Desperately he released the handle and strained forward to reach the
secondary firing mechanism under his seat between his feet. He wrenched
it and felt despair as there was no response. The seat was not working,
the blast had damaged some vital part of it. He had to fly the Mirage
out of it, with one arm and very little altitude left to him. He
fastened his right fist on to the moulded grip of the stick, and in the
crazy fall and flutter and whirl, David began to fight for control,
flying now by instinct alone, for he was badly hurt, and sky and
horizon, earth and cloud spun giddily across his vision.
He was aware that he was losing height rapidly, for every time the earth
swayed through his line of vision it was c ser an more menacing, t
doggedly he continued his attempts to roll against the direction of
spin.
The earth was very close before he felt the first hint of response, and
the ferocity of her gyrations abated slightly. Stick and rudder
together, he tried again and the Mirage showed herself willing at last.
Gently, with the touch of a lover, he wooed her and suddenly she came
out and he was flying straight and level, but she was hard hit. The
blast of the missile had done mortal damage, and she was heavy and sick
in his hands. He could feel the rough vibration of the engine shaking
her, and he guessed that the compressor had thrown a blade and was now
out of balance. Within minutes or seconds she would begin to tear
herself to pieces. He could not try for climbing power on her.
David looked quickly about him and realized with a shock how far he had
fallen in that terrible tumble down the sky. He was only two or three
hundred feet above the earth. He was not sure of his direction, but
when he glanced at his doppler compass, he found with mild surprise that
he was still heading in the general direction of home.
The engine vibration increased, and he could hear the shrill screech of
rending metal. He wasn't going to make it home, that was certain, and
there was insufficient height to jettison the canopy, release his straps
and attempt to scramble out of the cockpit. There was only one course
still remaining, he must fly the Mirage in.
Even as he made the decision his one good hand was busy implementing it.
Holding the stick between his knees, he let down his landing gear; the
nose wheel might hold him up long enough to take some of the speed off
her and prevent her cartwheeling.
He looked ahead, and saw a low ridge of rocky ground and sparse green
vegetation. Disaster lurked for him there, but beyond it were open
fields, ploughed land, orderly blocks of orchards, neatly laid-out
buildings.
That in itself was cheering. Such order and industry could only mean
that he had returned across the border to Israel.
David skimmed over the ridge of broken rocks, sucking in his own belly
as though to lift the Mirage bodily over the hungry teeth of granite,
and ahead of him lay the fields. He could see women working in one of
the orchards, stopping and turning to look at him. So close that he
could clearly see the expressions of surprise and apprehension on their
faces.
There was a man on a blue tractor and he jumped out from his seat and
fell to the earth as David passed only feet above his head.
All fuel cocks closed, all switches off, master switch off, David went
into the final ritual for crash-landing.
Ahead of him lay the smooth brown field, open and clear. He might just
be lucky enough, it might just come Off.
The Mirage was losing flying speed, her nose coming up, the airspeed
needle sinking back, 200 miles per hour, 190, 180, dropping back to her
stalling speed of 150.
Then suddenly David realized that the field ahead of him was latticed
with deep concrete irrigation channels.
They were twenty feet wide, and ten deep, a deadly hazard, enough to
destroy a Centurion tank.
There was nothing David could do now to avoid their gaping jaws. He
flew the mirage in, touching down smoothly.
Smooth as a tomcat pissing on a sheet of velvet, he thought bitterly,
aware that all his skill was unavailing now. Even Barney would have
been proud of me. The field was rough, but the Mirage settled to it,
pitching and lurkin& shaking David ruthlessly about the cockpit, but she
was up on all three wheels, losing speed handily, her undercart taking
the strain. However, she was still travelling at ninety miles an hour
when she went into the irrigation ditch.
it snapped her undercart off like pretzel sticks and she nosed in,
struck the far bank of concrete that sheered through metal like a
scythe, and sent the fuselage cartwheeling across the field with David
still strapped within it. The wings broke away and the body slid on
across the soft earth to come to rest at last, right way up like a
stranded whale.
The whole of David's left side was numb, no feeling in his arm or lethe
straps had mauled him with their rude grasp, and he was stunned and
bewildered in the sudden engrossing silence.
For many seconds he sat still, unable to move or think. Then he smelled
it, the pervasive reek of Avtur jet fuel from the ruptured tanks and
lines. The smell of it galvanized him with the pilot's deadly fear of
fire.
With his right hand he grabbed the canopy release lever and heaved at
it. He wasted ten precious seconds with it, for it was jammed solid.
Then he turned his attention to the steel canopy breaker in its niche
below the lever. This was a tool specially designed for this type of
emergency. He lifted it, lay back in his seat and attacked the Perspex
dome above his head. The stink of jet fuel was overpowering, filling
the cockpit, and he could hear the little pinging and tinkling sound
made by white-hot metal.
His left arm hampered him, he had no feeling or use in it. The straps
bound him tightly to his seat and he had to pause in his assault upon
the canopy to loosen them.
Then he began again. He tore an opening in the Perspex, the size of a
hand, and as he worked to enlarge it, a ruptured fuel pressure line
somewhere in the shattered fuselage sprayed a jet of Avtur high in the
air. It fell in a heavy drizzle upon the canopy like a garden
sprinkler, poured down the curved sides and dribbled through the hole
David was cutting. It fell into his face, icy cold on his cheeks and
stinging his eyes, it drenched his shoulders and the front of his