by John Harris
The Valentias of the Communications Flight, enormous ugly biplanes, were wheeled forward late in the afternoon, and the whole aerodrome turned out to see them leave.
The first batch of women and children were hurried to the airfield. They were a pathetic-looking lot, wearing everything they could because they were allowed only what they could carry. Despite the growing heat, some of the women wore two coats and children were complaining about the weight of two sweaters. They were all borne down with suitcases and packages and they all looked tired, unwashed and exhausted.
As the Valentias took off, the AVM gave a sigh of relief. As he turned away he glanced at the ridge of high ground overlooking the aerodrome and his eye caught a flash of light. He knew exactly what it meant. Irazhi soldiers were up there.
That evening there was another of the interminable conferences. By this time there wasn’t a man at Kubaiyah who wasn’t expecting the Irazhis to attack and only Osanna had much to say that was encouraging.
‘We understand,’ he pointed out, ‘that Hitler believes – erroneously – that there are 14,000 British troops in Irazh and another 14,000 on the way.’
‘I wish there were,’ the AVM said.
‘Besides–’ Osanna continued ‘–we know that now the fighting in Greece is reaching its climax Hitler’s occupied with the invasion of Crete. It’s obvious that will come next because the German airborne general, Student, is in Athens. For us, if not for the men in Crete, that’s an advantage. Thank God it doesn’t seem to have occurred to Hitler that he could use his aircraft here to greater effect.’
As the talking went on, discussions were also taking place in the hangars. They had been going on ever since they had realised Kubaiyah could be in danger of attack but now, with the knowledge that the Irazhis were taking up positions on ground overlooking the cantonment, an extra urgency had entered them. The Fairey Gordons, which could do only eighty miles an hour and were normally used only for target towing, had been fitted up to carry bombs, which meant that twelve of their aircraft could now carry 250-pound missiles. The increase in their strength, however, only served to make Fogarty dissatisfied with the Audaxes which were supposed to have only two light racks for 20-pound Cooper bombs.
‘If the Gordons can carry two 250-pounders,’ he said, ‘then the Audaxes can, too. And if they can, so can the Harts. They’re virtually the same aircraft. And if we can make ’em do so, then we’ll be able to treble the weight of bombs we could drop if we have to. What about the Oxfords?’
‘They can’t be adapted.’ The station engineering officer was in no doubt. ‘The Oxford’s a very delicate aircraft and the disturbance caused by bombs or a bomb rack could make it hard to handle.’
Among the listening officers, Boumphrey frowned, and, soon afterwards, while the matter was being debated in Group Captain Vizard’s office, he set off for Workshops, with the dog, Archie, at his heels. He had always been good with his hands and, during his pupil training at Cranwell, had done very well in the essential metalwork tests. Jenno found him bent over a vice with a file, his face set in a frown of concentration. The dog, asleep nearby inside a coil of wire, opened one eye.
‘What’s on, Ratter?’ he asked.
‘The engineering officer insists the Oxfords can’t carry bombs,’ Boumphrey explained. ‘He sounded as if he were explaining the thing to a lot of delinquent children. But that’s a pity, because we have more Oxfords than anything else. I’m trying to make a bomb rack for ’em.’
‘Think you can do it?’
‘I was always a dab hand with Meccano.’ Boumphrey bent over his task, the perspiration dripping off the end of his nose. ‘And engineering officers are noted for their resistance to the obvious. In France, they refused back armour to Number One Squadron’s Hurricanes because they said it would affect the flying qualities. Number One didn’t agree and took some off crashed Battles and it made no difference at all.’
‘What’s Groupy say?’
‘He’s not keen if Workshops aren’t keen. I think we ought to suck it and see. With a bit of one-eighth mild steel sheet, a hacksaw, a file, a drill, a bench and a vice, I reckon we ought to be able to come up with something.’ Boumphrey’s head lifted and he gazed at Jenno with his gentle blue eyes. ‘I reckon we’ve got to, in fact, don’t you?’
By afternoon, with the help of a flight sergeant fitter, he had made a bomb rack which could be fitted to an Oxford. Jenno stared at it.
‘The bomb’s tail fins will stick out beneath the fuselage,’ he pointed out.
‘The group captain’ll never wear it, sir,’ the flight sergeant agreed.
When the engineering officer was consulted, he immediately refused to permit the rack to be fitted. ‘I can’t allow an aircraft to be flown with irregular additions to it,’ he insisted.
‘I’ll have a go,’ Boumphrey said. ‘If it doesn’t come off, nobody’ll miss me. I’ll sign a blood chit. Every civilian we fly has to sign one when we take him up, to show the RAF can’t be held responsible. If I state that I’m prepared to fly an aircraft not cleared as serviceable, that covers everybody.’
The engineering officer remained unhappy, but he wasn’t so rigid he couldn’t see the advantages if it worked, and he suggested the matter should be put before the chief flying instructor.
Unfortunately, Fogarty was with Group Captain Vizard in the air vice-marshal’s office discussing what could be done, and wasn’t available.
‘Four bombing flights have been formed,’ he was pointing out. ‘Together with one fighter flight of Gladiators. I’ve taken command and the Kubaiyah Air Striking Force is ready.’
There were a few smiles but they soon died. ‘If the Irazhis come,’ the AVM pointed out, ‘we would expect them in numbers on the escarpment. There are already a few in position. It’s a hundred feet high and a rifleman could put a bullet through any window in the camp from up there. It provides a magnificent view of the hangars and the water tank, on which, I might add, we depend because it not only keeps the trees and flowers alive, it keeps us alive.’
‘Let’s not shout “All is lost” until the ship starts to sink, sir,’ Vizard said. ‘It’s true, if the Irazhis do appear on the escarpment in numbers, the main airfield’s going to be completely under their domination. But the repair shops and the aircraft aren’t.’ He paused. ‘There’s one other thing in our favour. The hangars mask the polo ground and, by combining it with the golf course, we can make a small landing ground there for the Audaxes and Harts. Works and Bricks have already started, in fact. The trees between have been felled, the road taken out and the golf course levelled.’
‘Oh, woe!’ mourned the padre.
‘The remaining trees have been left because they obscure the view of the landing ground from the plateau. Meanwhile, pupils have been set in their spare time to belting ammunition for the Gladiators. I hope there isn’t too much demand on them, though, because the belts can only be filled at a rate of twenty-five rounds a minute while the guns can empty them at a rate of eighty.’
During the night the sound of traffic to the east and south of the aerodrome was heard. Before dawn the following morning a cipher message from the embassy in Mandadad informed them that, due to the large bodies of troops on the road towards Kubaiyah, no more women and children would be sent for the time being, and the RAF lorries which were to have left for them were to remain inside the fence because the Irazhi forces now blocking the road were quite clearly intended to threaten Kubaiyah.
The orderly officer, a very young pilot, was informed and the alarm was sounded on a bugle. Heads appeared from windows because, although many of the men in Kubaiyah had been in the RAF for some time, none of them had ever heard that particular bugle call before. Those who had could only assume it was a practice.
The information was passed on to the group captain and the chief flying instructor. Fogarty hauled himself from his bed and headed for his office. As the crimson sky paled to yellow, it was immediately possible to see Iraz
his along the edge of the escarpment digging trenches and erecting what appeared to be fortifications. He reached for the telephone.
‘Let’s have the first training flight of the day away,’ he instructed. ‘It will be crewed by two experienced pilots and they will pretend to do S-turns along the edge of the escarpment. They’re to report what they see.’
The machine roared off within minutes. When it landed the crew confirmed that the Irazhis had indeed arrived.
‘The buggers are there all right,’ the observer said. ‘They’re setting up gun positions. They’re not much more than a thousand yards from the perimeter fence.’
Well, now they knew.
Kubaiyah was being threatened and – exposed to attack on two sides and dominated by the guns moving into position on the plateau – seemed to be at the Irazhis’ mercy.
Flying that morning didn’t follow the usual pattern. The aircraft that took off from the airfield all carried experienced crews because every NCO, airman and anybody else who could be spared was digging trenches, setting up blockhouses and gun positions and manning the weapons they had installed.
‘Which means,’ Fogarty said flatly, ‘that the only people left to move, bomb up and arm the aircraft – forty-six of ’em now – are the pilots. However–’ he pulled a sheet of paper towards him ‘–since the crisis has finally arrived, under the prevailing conditions, the following circumstances will prevail: The Oxfords and Gladiators will be moved as far as possible out of the sight of the guns on the plateau behind the hangars. The Harts and Audaxes will go to the polo field where they will be dispersed under the trees. The Gordons get the sticky wicket nearest to the plateau.’ He looked at his sergeant clerk. ‘What about an operations room?’
‘Set up, sir,’ the sergeant clerk said. ‘In the flight office in B hangar. We’ve cleared everything out and maps and telephones have been installed.’
The aircraft started moving, the pilots taxiing where possible, pushing where taxiing wasn’t possible. In the meantime, everybody began to find excuses for why they shouldn’t be digging trenches. Digging trenches in the heat of the Irazhi noon was not the sort of thing most people enjoyed and it was amazing how many fitters, riggers and flight mechanics found there were unfinished jobs on aircraft to be completed. There was a tremendous new interest in the Form 700, the air serviceability form, in daily inspections, and the Q Form, which was the aircraft unserviceability sheet; and it was amazing how many machines suddenly developed mag drops, loss of revs and unexpected engine temperatures, and had to be put right.
Soon after midday a string of cars and lorries arrived at the main gate, filled with civilians who turned out to be the engineers from the pumping station at Dhubban village just to the east of the cantonment. They had not been harmed but there had been no mistaking the Irazhis’ intentions.
‘The buggers have taken over the whole works,’ they announced.
Kubaiyah was one of the few places in Irazh that had its own sanitary system. The sewage was pumped into the river, whose fast-flowing current dispersed it rapidly, but it was clear that in the event of trouble the occupation of the pumping station was going to be a problem. With the refugees, there could well be as many as 10,000 people at Kubaiyah and the effects if the Irazhis switched off the pumps could be disastrous.
As the news flew round the cantonment, an old popular service song could be heard in the billets, workshops, hangars, stores and trenches.
Sweet vi-o-lets,
Sweeter than all the roses,
Covered all over from head to foot,
Covered all over in –
Sweet vi-o-lets…
Two hours later, the station orderly officer appeared at the group captain’s door. Things were always done properly in the RAF and when an incident occurred at the main gate, the corporal of the guard called the orderly sergeant who called the orderly officer, who was now handing a note to the group captain.
‘Delivered at the main gate, sir,’ he said. ‘By an Irazhi colonel. He was accompanied by a captain and a sergeant carrying a white flag.’
‘A white flag?’ The group captain’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Why? We’re not at war.’
‘Perhaps we’re about to be, sir.’
The group captain lit a cigarette. ‘I can guess what this is,’ he said. ‘It’s a request to hand the place over to the Irazhi Air Force. I suspect it’ll get a dusty answer. Very well, I’ll deliver it to the air vice-marshal. In the meantime, go back to the Irazhi gentlemen at the gate. Tell them that the air vice-marshal will have to be informed but that it will be done at once. However, show them every courtesy. Tell them – regretfully – they can’t be allowed inside but that we’ll deliver a reply as soon as possible. In the meantime, tell the adjutant to contact the chief flying instructor, the chief engineer and everybody else and tell them to get things moving. Because this very much seems to be it.’
While the message was delivered to the gate and the Irazhi colonel, a smart man wearing a pith helmet with a khaki neckcloth, climbed with his captain and his sergeant into his car to wait, things began to be stepped up. Trenches were now being dug at a remarkable speed and machine gun positions, surrounded by sandbags – there was never any shortage of sand at Kubaiyah – were going up.
When the news reached the chief flying instructor he was in the middle of an argument which included the chief engineering officer and Boumphrey.
‘It’ll play the very devil with the behaviour of the Oxford,’ the engineering officer was saying. ‘We know the characteristics of the machine. It could become catastrophically unstable on the final approach.’
‘Nobody’s tried yet,’ Boumphrey said again. ‘I’m willing to have a go.’
‘I’m not very happy,’ the engineering officer persisted.
Fogarty looked from one to the other before giving his opinion. ‘When I was on the North-West Frontier in 1930,’ he said, ‘flying from Peshawar, I had to make a forced landing in a Bristol fighter and it played hell with the tail skid and broke several cross-members at the rear of the fuselage. There was a distinct list to the tail, but we got the local carpenter to patch it up with the leg of a chair and a few bits of wood. In addition we were in a small depression. So we unloaded everything we could, worked out just how much petrol we needed to get out, pushed her up the slope at one end, paid several villagers to sit on the tail, and decided to take a chance. We knew we couldn’t stay where we were because the tribesmen had heard about us and were on their way, and you know what they do to your private parts. We buried the machine guns and gave away everything else, then I took off, sitting on the knees of the observer who was in the front cockpit to make the tail lighter. I revved the engine, the chaps on the tail let go, and away we went. The tail skid made a hell of a row and eventually there was a colossal bang. But we’d just about reached flying speed so I shoved the stick forward and we came unstuck and just made it out of the depression. When I landed at Peshawar the engineering officer said the tail ought to have fallen off. But it didn’t.’ He gestured. ‘Sign the blood chit, Ratter, and have a go.’
The bomb rack was fitted and the practice bombs hoisted into place. Normally the Oxford carried only an 8-pound training bomb but Boumphrey was carrying eight 20-pounders, and half the Workshop force turned out to watch what happened. At the last minute, Jenno decided to fly as second pilot.
As they climbed aboard, the dog, Archie, jumped in with them. It went everywhere Boumphrey went and when Boumphrey flew Archie also flew. Whenever it saw Boumphrey reach for his flying helmet the dog ran ahead of him, watching which aircraft he was heading for and waiting alongside it until he arrived. As they turned from the hangars and taxied to the gate that led on to the flying field, it stood with its Queen Anne front legs up against the Plexiglass bomb-aimer’s window and watched the movements on the ground with approval.
They taxied onto the take-off and landing area and swung to face the length of the field. Watched by Jenno, Boumphrey did his che
cks carefully and professionally then he turned and smiled. It was a strangely attractive smile.
‘Here goes nothing,’ he said.
Opening the throttle, he released the brakes and the Oxford began to move forward, slowly at first, then swiftly gathering speed. Lifting the tail to a flying attitude, Boumphrey allowed the speed to increase further, then very gently began to lift the machine off the ground. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but, whatever it was, it didn’t happen. The Oxford lifted slowly, even a little sluggishly – and, holding it level for a while to build up the speed, Boumphrey pulled gently back on the stick and the machine began to climb in a slow right-hand turn.
Having supervised the lift-off, the dog, which had watched every movement below as they roared into the air, climbed down and chose a spot near Boumphrey and went to sleep. Jenno had long since noticed that no amount of manoeuvring disturbed the dog, but when Boumphrey throttled back for his final approach, it would be back at the front dome to supervise the landing and at the doors as they rolled to a stop, waiting to be let out.
‘Bang on,’ Boumphrey said cheerfully. ‘It flies. That means that if they’re needed we have twenty-seven more aggressive aircraft. Let’s nip along the edge of the plateau and see what’s happening there.’
Flying at two hundred and fifty feet, a hundred feet above the highest part of the plateau, the turbulence started, the instrument panel dancing on its mountings, and as they drew nearer the machine began to drop and flounder so that Boumphrey had to work hard at the controls to contain the fluctuating airspeed within a safe range. But it was possible to see everything that was happening. The escarpment was like an ants’ nest and swarming with men. They appeared to be all over the high ground and batteries were already in position, the gun barrels pointing towards the landing field. They could see lorries, cars, carts, Bren carriers, batteries and machine gun posts all being set up and trenches being dug along the edge of the plateau. Hundreds of faces lifted as the Oxford passed over.