There is absolutely no reason why this story should appear in An Irishman's Diary. It has no relevance to Ireland, or the world today. It finds its way into this space simply because I say what's going in this column when I'm writing it, and I find this an incredible tale, writes Kevin Myers
No doubt you'll all yawn and throw, "Here he goes again with the second bloody World War: can he find nothing better to talk about? Dear Madam, this is to cancel my subscription because of that Brit-loving toady. . ."
So I now address my two remaining readers. Sorry, one. Nice to have you aboard,
Wing Commander Blenkinsop-Blenkinsop, I trust you'll stay with me to the end of this column, which is about a Londoner called Norman Jackson, with no known Irish connections, who nearly 60 years ago, in April 1944, embarked with his Lancaster crew on a bombing operation over Germany. He didn't have to fly on this operation: he had just completed his operational tour of 30 missions, but the rest of his crew had done only 29 missions, and this was their last one before they too could retire.
The Lancaster was on its way home from bombing its target - ball-bearing factories in Schweinfurt - when it was attacked by a German night-fighter and one of its four engines was set on fire. Norman Jackson realised the inferno could soon ignite a nearby fuel tank in a wing, so he hit on a wizard wheeze. He decided to crawl out on to the wing with a fire extinguisher and put the fire out.
This was at 22,000 feet and 200 knots.
His plan was that he would carefully open his parachute inside the aircraft, and two crewmen would hold onto it, paying the chords out as he crawled along the wing with a fire extinguisher stuffed inside his tunic, and with his gloves removed so he could wield the extinguisher.
He clambered out of the cockpit into about a minus-100 Celsius slipstream of over 200 m.p.h., and having lowered himself on to the wing, threw himself flat and grabbed the leading edge. He then crawled along the wing until he reached the burning engine. Holding the wing with one hand, he removed the extinguisher from his tunic with the other, somehow managing to get it to work - how? don't know: with his teeth maybe - and then managed to put the engine fire out.
On the wing, alone, at 22,000 feet and 200 knots.
Of course, this world being the place it is, the pesky night fighter promptly returned, raking the Lancaster with canon fire, and hitting Norman in his back and legs. The bomber pilot banked to escape the fighter, and Norman nearly fell off the wing, dropping the extinguisher. His fire-fighting exploits were over: dear me, turning out to be one of those days.
Naturally, the engine caught fire again, and the damaged bomber lurched out of control. At which point, the slipstream and Norman's numerous injuries triumphed over the strength of his fingers; he lost his grip on the wing and fell off.
So now Norman was being towed behind the plane, corkscrewing in the slipstream while his two colleagues desperately paid out the parachute chords so that he would be clear of the plane before they let him go. This in itself was extraordinarily brave, because they knew their bomber was now doomed, with little time before they too had to bail out.
As they finally released him, his parachute passed through the plume of flame billowing out behind the engine, and caught fire: even the chords connecting Norman with the canopy caught alight, and he had to slap them out with his bare hands. With the holes burnt through it, the parachute was now almost useless, and he plummeted downwards to certain death. He landed in a bank of green willows, which largely broke his fall.
However, both his ankles were shattered. He had terrible burns on his face and hands, and extensive cannon-shrapnel injuries in his back and legs. His Lancaster was at this point crashing, killing two of the crew: could they have been the pair who saved him? Norman Jackson crawled to a cottage, where the owner spat at him, and called him a "Churchill gangster". His fate could have been far worse - many downed aircrew were, unsurprisingly, lynched by Germans - but the cottage owner had two kindly daughters who carefully tended his injuries.
He emerged from POW camp 10 months later, with his hands permanently damaged by the burns. With him emerged the survivors of his crew, whose reports on his astounding gallantry, on their return to Britain, resulted in him being awarded the Victoria Cross.
Norman Jackson went on to be a whiskey salesman, and none of his workmates ever knew about a night he once spent over Germany. When he went to RAF reunions, he only ever put his medals on once he was with his former colleagues. He died 10 years ago, and with the recent death of his widow Alma, his family are now auctioning his medals: which is a little mystifying.
They are expected to fetch up to £140,000 sterling. It was news of the impending auction which brought the story of this extraordinary man and his extraordinary deeds to view. I just thought I'd like to share a few of the extraordinary details with you. Forgive me for boring you, Wing Commander. Ah. He's asleep. Just talking to myself. As usual.