It is Christmas Eve, 1957. Flying home, on leave from Germany, he is alone in the cockpit of the Vampire. Sixty-six minutes of flying time, with the descent and landing — destination Lakenheath. No problem, all routine procedures.
Then, out over the North Sea, the fog begins to close in. Radio contact ceases and the compass goes haywire. Suddenly, out of the mist, appears a World War II bomber. It is flying just below the Vampire, as if trying to make
contact.