Some pilots live to recount their most daunting, most perilous experiences. I was one of these lucky ones. 

I’ve had my full share of challenges during my thirty years of flying. But, on a moonless October night in 1960, piloting a Boeing 707, I came closer than I have ever come to disaster. 

It was an aviation nightmare. 

If I had had the luxury of time to speculate, I would have been certain that all ninety-one of us – my crew, passengers and I – were not much longer for this world.

*

Nairobi, Africa, 1960

Nairobi's control tower had informed me of the light rain and low cloud that came down to within a hundred foot ceiling. I was reluctant to divert to Entebbe, 300 miles away. The height of the low cloud was below the landing limits, but if the runway could be seen, then it was permissible to continue. 

Nairobi airfield's non-directional beacon, ‘let-down’ system was out of date – in fact, obsolete. The antiquated Embakasi NDB system utilised two locator beacons, and was characteristic of the outdated conditions still existent in Africa. It was scheduled to be replaced by the more efficient ILS¹ that was used globally and regarded as the minimum, the essential safe landing aid for the more demanding jets like the Boeing.

We extended the approach flaps and our undercarriage and then, at a rate of 500ft per minute and an indicated airspeed of 140 knots, began descending to 5,600ft altitude – 300ft above the airfield. We would maintain this height until we had flown over the inner NB locator. Soon after that, we hoped to catch sight of the approach lights and the runway itself through any gaps in the low clouds. If no sighting was made, the throttles would be opened up for a ‘go around’ and the landing would be aborted. It all sounds so straightforward and easy, and of course I had done it on many, many previous occasions. 

Prior to reaching the inner NB beacon, I advanced the engine power as usual, to maintain speed and adjusted the elevator's upward trim to be able to hold the 300ft clearance above the ground. Then I allowed the plane to drift slightly below 300ft above the ground to make sure that I would be able to land off this approach.

Suddenly we slipped beneath the cloud’s base. At the same instance my co-pilot, Captain Brian Bird, called out, ‘Lights ahead.’ I looked up from the flying instruments to discover with horror that the runway's approach lights – now burnt forever on my mind's retina – appeared to be at a much flatter angle than they should have been. We were dangerously low. There was a sudden jarring impact and the rumbling sound of our wheels on the ground, invisible in the darkness.

Later, the Nairobi inspector was to find that there was a difference of sixty feet between my altimeter and that of my co-pilot. And both read thirty-five feet higher than they should have. The aircraft was flying much lower than both our altimeter readings. 

I immediately slammed the four throttles into take-off power and yanked the control column back. My instinct was to get back into the air safely and assess the damage. 

*

Never before in civilian flying had I been so shaken as now, but far, far worse was still to come.

I climbed to 8,500ft and requested the navigator to give me a course to Entebbe where there was the chance of better conditions. We would have to climb to above 30,000ft again to avoid running out of fuel. 

Our first indication of damage was when my Flight Engineer, Don Smith, reported that the pressurisation in the cabin, essential for passenger and crew survival at 30,000ft, was out of action. We would not be able to divert to Entebbe. We would be forced to land at Nairobi. 

The next devastating news from Don was that all hydraulic fluid had been lost. This meant we would not be able to hydraulically lower the undercarriage again. Nor could we operate the landing flaps to reduce our stalling speed coming in to land. Without flaps and with ‘clean wings’, we would be forced to fly at a higher rate of knots to avoid stalling. Our wheel brakes would also be non-functional without hydraulic fluid. Once on the ground, with no wheel brakes, we would not be able to slow the plane.

Then, to add to our plight, Brian, my co-pilot, and I also came to the shocking realisation that our most important blind flying instruments, the two gyro compasses² and artificial horizons, as well as our two hand-setting directional gyros were dead. On top of that, we began to suspect the reliability of some of our other instruments, as well as our ADF receivers³.

We would have to resort to using our back-up bad weather flying instruments. They consisted of a pre-war Tiger Moth-type, basic ‘turn and bank’ indicator, and the emergency magnetic compass. But this compass was likely to become unstable whenever one executed any manoeuvres. It frequently gave a delayed response and only indicated accurately after the plane was again flown straight, level and at a constant speed. 

These basic instruments were totally inadequate to handle a large and fast jet efficiently, especially in the worsening weather conditions. With only primitive instruments, precision flying was going to be extremely difficult, if not impossible.

*

I was stunned and in shock. Understanding the enormity of our situation, I felt completely helpless. Automatically I was going through the motions of handling the plane, but what I felt was despair. 

Brian must have realised my state of mind, and he urgently asked, ‘What are we going to do, Chris?’

No matter what I felt, I had to pull myself together. ‘We’ve got to go down again … now.’

The tension in the cockpit was oppressive. Nobody spoke. My silence may have come over as calmness, but it was far from the truth. Into the silence, Don’s voice was urgent and shrill, ‘Captain, we don’t have enough fuel for another go-around. This is our only chance.’ If we missed the runway on this approach, we would all be goners. I had anticipated this bad news but it nevertheless came as another disheartening shock. 

Once more I began the bad weather let-down approach procedure. This required some hairy, blind-flying manoeuvres low in the cloud until the inner NB locator needle once more indicated that we were near the correct runway heading. Each of my actions was critical.

We passed over the inner NB locator. We were still in solid cloud. I let down further, anticipating the appearance of the runway's threshold lights. But, we never saw them. There was no break in the clouds. With every second that passed, I despaired of ever seeing the runway. 

Then, a miraculous gift. We were given a last minute, life-saving reprieve.

¹ ILS – Instrument Landing System.

² A gyro compass system has a remotely located unit for sensing the earth's magnetic field. It incorporates a gyroscope to provide stability. This operation requires electrical power. A variety of cockpit indicators can be driven by a gyro compass system, including a radio magnetic indicator (RMI) or a horizontal situation indicator (HSI).

³ ADF equipment determines the direction or bearing to the NDB station relative to the aircraft.