Spitfire Girl (20 page)

*
Radio Telephone.

*
I regret using technicalities but as the ‘Q.D.M.’ was the only navigational aid available on the Spitfire it warrants a brief mention. A ground station receives the voice signal sent out over the Radio Telephone, plots the direction of this signal on a special receiver and gives the course the aircraft should steer in order to reach the station. Having a short range and varied reliability, it is an aid rather than a primary means of navigation.

The following morning after normal clearance we took
off with full tanks for the long 650-mile leg to Bahrain, a civil aerodrome on the Persian Gulf, and misfortune. Chattering happily over the R/T we climbed to 23,000 feet through the broken sleepy clouds not yet banished by the sun’s magic wand. The tension that marked the first leg had gone. Robinson’s leadership, at times irascible, had proven itself. The Spitfires responded obediently to our growing confidence. Below, four miles below, the rivers Tigris and Euphrates flanked us on either side like friendly sheep dogs pointing the way.

An hour and a half later we overflew Shaibah, the halfway mark and a possible alternate R.A.F. aerodrome if we had used more fuel than anticipated. Beyond lay the long haul over the Persian Gulf.

‘How’s your petrol, Jackie?’ asked Robinson.

‘O.K. I’m still on belly-tank. Main tank full.’

‘Pearce?’

‘Same. Still on belly. Main’s full.’

‘O.K.,’ decided Robinson stoically, ‘we’ll press on to Bahrain.’

Pity. I was thirsty, stiff and cold.

A few minutes later the brilliant turquoise waters of the Gulf glinted relief to eyes surfeited with desert and scrub. I felt momentary surprise that it existed. The surprise that always accompanies my first view of a notable city, ocean or country. I do not genuinely believe that Rio de Janeiro, or Everest or the Yukon exist. They are ghosts until I discover them with my own eyes. Pearce’s voice broke into my thoughts. ‘Robinson,’ he called. I glanced over; Pearce was porpoising slightly and trailing behind.

‘Yes. What’s up?’ replied Robinson.

‘Nothing much. My engine’s a bit rough...’

‘What’s the matter with it?’

‘Plugs I think. She’s vibrating and...’

‘Do you want to turn back to Shaibah?’

‘Better.’

‘Open up and try and clear her,’ suggested Robinson.

Pearce tried it and sailed past.

‘Any better?’

‘No. She’s still rough.’

‘O.K. O.K. We’ll turn back to Shaibah.’

With an alacrity that suggested we were all thinking of a cup of tea we turned our backs on the Persian Gulf and pointed our noses down for Shaibah, notorious throughout the R.A.F. as home of the plaintive ballad: ‘I’ve got those Shaibah blues.’

Robinson landed first, vanishing in a miniature dust storm as he touched down and rolled along the natural desert runway. Pearce and I circled in formation for the dust to settle. ‘You had better go in next,’ I suggested.

I watched him as he broke off in a steep turn, the Spitfire’s elliptical wings making a pretty silhouette against the egg-blue sky, and side-slipped towards the runway. The cloud of dust as he touched down was spectacular. I grinned. Must have been a lousy landing. The next moment the grin froze to horror as his tail reared almost vertically through the dust and hovered like the last appeal of a dying man before flopping back into the murk in another flurry of dust. With agonizing slowness the dust drifted away before the wreck emerged from its own funeral pall. A fire truck raced across the aerodrome, throwing up a bow-wave of dust like a destroyer at full speed. There was a confused babble of voices over the R/T before Robinson’s voice broke in: ‘Hold it, Jackie. Pearce has crashed.’

A few minutes later I landed on an alternative runway and taxied past Pearce’s aircraft squatting grotesquely on its belly. Its sleek lines were blurred by jagged metal and wrinkled skin. The propeller was smashed. It was a write-off. Pearce waved ruefully as I taxied by.

‘What happened?’ I asked, as a very forlorn Pearce and an angry Robinson returned to the Control Tower in the fire-truck.

‘I forgot my undercarriage,’ he replied simply.

Poor old Pearce. I put my arm in his to cheer him up. ‘It happens to everybody sooner or later,’ I reminded him.

It is true. This humiliating kind of accident has plagued aviation since the introduction of retractable undercarriages, despite the devices installed to remind the pilot approaching to land that his wheels are still retracted. There is no excuse for it beyond human frailty, but no pilot would criticize another for the momentary aberration that has such disastrous consequences for, sooner or later, somewhere, sometime, the chances are that he will do it himself. If he has not done it already.

‘I’ll have to go and see the R.A.F. C.O.,’ said Robinson. ‘You two wait here. Keep your mouths shut,’ he added.

‘This is a bloody fine mess. I am a clot,’ muttered Pearce moodily as Robinson walked away. I clucked the useless don’t worries of the helpless bystander and suggested tea.

Robinson returned an hour later, ‘I’ve seen the C.O. We’ll have to get out quickly before the Iraqis start poking around.’ He turned to Pearce. ‘I’ve cabled Air Services that you are returning immediately to London. There’s an R.A.F. Anson aircraft leaving soon. They’ll take you to Basra. From there you can make your own way back to England by air-lines. I’ll give you travellers’ cheques. Get cracking and unload your stuff from the Spit.’

‘I’ll help you...’

‘No time for that, Jackie, we’ve got to refuel and get out. If the Iraqis start investigating and find out where these Spits came from the whole lot will be impounded.’

Within two hours of the crash Robinson and I were heading out over the Persian Gulf for Bahrain. I wished we could have spent a day or two with Pearce. The look of dumb misery as he waved from the Anson haunted me. ‘Poor old Pearce,’ I muttered involuntarily over the R/T.

‘What was that?’

‘I said, ‘‘Poor old Pearce.’’‘

With a grunt he replied, ‘Yep. Tough luck.’

Robinson and I completed the pioneering flight to Burma without further incident, rested for a day in Rangoon, too weary to explore beyond the cool fan-washed lounge of the Strand Hotel and gained only a fleeting impression of richly gilded pagodas rising from Rangoon’s stifling squalor before returning by B.O.A.C. to Cyprus.

Two new pilots from England joined Robinson and me
in Cyprus, amidst an alarming outbreak of rumours, for the next flight of four aircraft to Burma. In the hotel, in Nicosia’s dreary night-clubs and on the aerodrome, total strangers offered the comment: ‘Don’t kid me old girl, I know your Spitfires come from Israel.’

Robinson, his face livid, joined us at breakfast the day before our departure and slapped a newspaper on the table. ‘Look at that!’

We looked. Under the headline:
Israel Sells Spitfires to Burma
, not a detail was spared. At the end of the article were the significant letters ‘U.P.’

‘That means’, observed Robinson angrily, ‘it will be repeated in every damned newspaper under the sun!’

There was a moment’s speculative silence.

‘What do we do now?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘Nothing we can do but press on and hope for the best.’

‘And what about us if the Arabs get nasty?’ pertinently asked one of the new pilots.

Robinson grinned. ‘We can always buy our freedom by flogging Jackie to the local sheik.’

‘They don’t like thin ones.’

‘We can fatten her up with goats’ milk.’

‘Thanks!’

The goats’ milk was unnecessary. We passed through Arabia without so much as a raised eyebrow. The Israelis, I decided, were exaggerating. The Arabs couldn’t be less interested in the Spitfires.

We were the last flight to get through.

At Calcutta, Robinson, exhausted with a touch of mild but persistent fever, made an atrocious landing, damaged the undercarriage, promptly commandeered my Spitfire and continued to Rangoon with the other two aircraft, leaving me behind to supervise repairs. Swallowing my pique I did as I was told.

Ten days later I received a cable from Air Services instructing me to arrange for a Burmese air-force pilot to take over and to return immediately to Cyprus for the next flight.

After the long fifteen-hour flight westwards via B.O.A.C. I disembarked at Beirut for the B.E.A. plane to Cyprus. There was a two-hour delay. Tired and dishevelled I sat in the departure lounge idly admiring the abstract murals. Arab sheiks, impressive in white flowing robes and headdress ostensibly ignored me as is their unemancipated wont, but sneaked surreptitious glances at my legs. A sultry voice announced in Arabic and French the arrival and departure of planes for destinations at cold war with Israel. I glanced idly through the spacious windows. Parked in the far corner of the tarmac were three Spitfires in vaguely familiar markings. Absently I admired their graceful lines.

Spitfires!

I jumped up.

And sat down again.

It would be foolhardy to ask questions. Whatever the answer it must wait until I reached Cyprus. They must have started the third ferry flight without me. Enigmatically the aircraft returned my glances. What had gone wrong? Where were the pilots?

The sultry voice announcing the departure of B.E.A. to Cyprus saved me from indiscretion.

In the trim B.E.A. Viscount the hostess got slightly snooty when I insisted on sitting on the side nearest the Spitfires. ‘I want to see the Spitfires,’ I explained.

‘Yes, madam,’ she replied in a voice reserved for the senile.

I looked at them carefully as they slid past the Viscount’s large oval windows. Not a scratch. Not a bullet-hole. I was mystified. ‘Do you know what happened to the pilots of those Spitfires?’ I asked as the hostess fussily adjusted my safety belt. I did not add that I had been adjusting safety belts for nearly twenty years.

Maddeningly benign, she replied, ‘What pilots, madam?’

Unkindly disgusted, I fell asleep.

‘Nicosia, madam. Fasten your seat belt.’

I woke with a start and looked down as Nicosia aerodrome tilted into view. The mystery deepened. Meteors, Vampires, Dakotas. A Hermes. But no Spitfires.

Jones, an Air Services pilot met me in the Customs shed. ‘Any news, Jackie?’

‘Have
I
got any news!’

‘You passed through Beirut...?’

‘I saw three of our Spits there. That’s all I know. What’s up? What’s happened?’

‘Pity. I hoped you would have... Robinson decided not to wait for you and pressed on with the next flight. They ran into a packet of trouble. They were turned back at Baghdad.’

‘Why on earth did they land at Baghdad? That’s an Iraqi civil aerodrome.’

‘We’ve been asked not to use the R.A.F. aerodrome at Habbaniya any more...’

‘Why in heavens not?’

He shrugged. ‘Orders from London. The Iraqis must have tumbled that the Spits are from Israel. Anyway, after landing at Baghdad, they were escorted back as far as the Syrian border by Iraqi fighters. Then they had engine trouble and had to go into Beirut. Emergency landing. They’ve been arrested and the Spits are impounded.’

‘Couldn’t they make it back here?’

‘Apparently not. It was getting dark apart from the engine trouble.’

I looked at him gloomily. ‘What do we do now?’

‘Wait until we hear from London.’

‘Is Hugo here?’

‘Yes. He’s waiting for us in the office. Let’s go.’

‘What does he think?’

‘It’s pretty obvious. The Arabs have clamped down.’

We picked up Hugo and drove to the hotel. ‘I suppose Hugo, this means I’m out of a job,’ I said as we drove through the airport gates.

‘Yes, I guess so,’ he replied curtly. I looked at him in surprise before the bitterness in his eyes brought home the monumental triviality of my remark. Momentarily I had forgotten he was an Israeli. ‘I’m sorry, Hugo.’

Three days later a laconic cable arrived from Air Services:

‘
Remainder of contract cancelled. Return London immediately
.’

Hugo saw us off. The smile had returned. ‘Cheer up, Jackie,’ he said enigmatically. ‘We’re not beaten yet.’

I looked at him hopefully. ‘What...?’

He put an index finger vertically to his lips, winked and waved good-bye.

A month had passed when Reg, home for lunch,
unsuspectingly passed the telephone: ‘It’s for you. Trunk call.’

‘Mrs Moggridge?’

‘Yes.’

‘Israeli Embassy here, Hayman Shameer speaking...’

‘Yes.’

‘This is in the strictest confidence. May I rely on your discretion?’

‘Of course.’

‘We are continuing the Spitfire operation.’

Bless Hugo.

‘But how...?’

‘I would prefer not to discuss it over the phone. Can you come up to London?’

Reg, his ear close to the phone, nodded.

‘Yes.’

‘Tomorrow at two o’clock at the Embassy?’

‘Yes. What happened to the pilots at Beirut?’

There was a snort of disgust. ‘They got out all right after they were searched, interrogated and fined.’
*

‘And the aircraft?’

‘Still there.’

I reported punctually at the Embassy, tucked away unobtrusively in a corner of Manchester Square. The blue and white flag of Israel billowing in welcome, added a touch of colour to the gloomy wintry scene. I looked at it curiously. Somehow I had not associated Jews with their own flag.

Inside, a dark attractive receptionist guided me to Shameer’s office. He rose from his desk as I entered, apologized for the sniffles that contrasted oddly with his tan and introduced me to three pilots waiting in an adjoining office:

‘Leo Kastner... He will lead the flights.’ He was stocky, about thirty-five, tanned and puckishly easy. An American, I thought gloomily. He won’t know anything about Spitfires. He was soon calling me ‘Kid’.

‘Sonny Banting...’ The ‘Howdoyoudo’ was unmistakably English. He was of medium height, ruddy and looked about forty. He was fifty-seven. Had been flying since the 1914–18 war.