Hero's Welcome

More than any British aircraft since the ill-starred Comet I, the delta-winged Vulcan bomber has stood as a symbol of Britain's ability to keep abreast of the jet age. One day last week the four-jet, 150,000-lb. Vulcan headed home from a 26,000-mile flight to Australia and back, and R.A.F. officials decided to give it a big welcome at London Airport, where all the world could see and applaud.

Low-lying clouds and a cold rain darkened the field, but by the time the first high whine of the Vulcan's Olympus engines could be heard above the overcast, the clouds had lifted enough to permit a safe landing by Ground Controlled Approach, the procedure by which operators "talk" a plane down onto a field. As London's GCA operator went to work, a respectful crowd of high-ranking airmen and their wives stood by to greet the Vulcan's distinguished crew of war heroes. The pilot was Squadron Leader Donald Howard, D.F.C., and his copilot was none other than Air Marshal Sir Harry Broadhurst, chief of Britain's Bomber Command. Lady Broadhurst waited with their four-year-old daughter on the airport apron.

The whine of the plane came closer, but visibility was too poor to let the crowd see it. Keeping his ship up in the flare-out, Pilot Howard was easing down toward the runway just over Farmer Joseph Philp's sprouts patch, 600 yards away. Suddenly he felt his wheels touch down--too soon. Ramming his throttles forward, he tried to climb skyward. At that moment the airport greeters had their first horror-stricken sight of the Vulcan, a monstrous shadow in the mists at the runway's threshold. It was in trouble. Pilot Howard passed the word, "Abandon ship!" He and Sir Harry, in their ejector seats, shot upward from the aircraft, and their parachutes blossomed in the mist. But for the other four members of the crew, whose only exit was through the plane's underside, there was no chance. The Vulcan's nose cut earthward again, and the aircraft skidded along the concrete runway in a trail of blazing fuel. A thunderous explosion rent the air.

In the grass alongside the runway where his ejector-parachute had dropped him, Pilot Howard lay, scratched and dazed but otherwise unhurt. Near by, on the concrete itself, was Sir Harry Broadhurst. His feet were broken. In a moment both airmen were in the arms of their wives who had come to cheer their return. Farther down the runway, the other greeters watched in silence as airport firemen fought the flames, and experts prepared to investigate whether mechanical or human failure had struck down the Vulcan.

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