Love, Death, Chariot of Fire

by Winton Higgins

  Mitchell wonders why he’s been chosen to be on the receiving end of this tirade. Perhaps McLean’s secretary misdirected a call meant for Whitehall. On the other hand, he feels no less strongly about the outrage in question and the government’s fateful paralysis in the face of it.

  ‘Of course I agree, Bob! It’s an even more despicable example of appeasement than letting Mussolini get away scot-free with invading Abyssinia last year. A precedent that hasn’t escaped Hitler’s notice, obviously! And this time around the failure is right on our doorstep, not off in Africa somewhere. Yes, the news couldn’t be more dispiriting. And significant for us, I guess, coming two days after we’d flown the Type 300 prototype for the first time.’

  ‘Too right it’s bloody “significant”! Nothing will stop that monster now he’s been given carte blanche. He’ll rearm helter skelter without inhibition, and then start pushing his territorial demands against his neighbours. This country included, in the end. He won’t stop until we’re all plunged into a new Dark Age! And just look at the state of this country’s defences! At the moment all our frontline fighters are bloody biplanes!’

  Mitchell is still puzzled over McLean’s call about the European crisis during working hours. ‘So what does it mean for Vickers and Supermarine?’

  ‘I was talking to some people in London yesterday. They all think a major war is inevitable now. In the not too distant future. And when I got back to my office a message to ring Stuffy Dowding was waiting for me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Thereby hangs a tale, RJ. I’d heard through the grapevine that the air force is in the throes of being reorganised, with separate fighter and bomber commands. And the word is that Stuffy is likely to become air officer commanding of the fighter side of things. So naturally I rang him back on the instant.’

  ‘And what did he want?’

  ‘He’s got wind of the successful testing of our prototype. Presumably from Scott-Hall, who saw it. Stuffy wants to come and see it for himself at Eastleigh aerodrome. Purely informally, no fuss, no publicity. He could make it on Wednesday next week.’

  ‘But we’ve got the rest of this month to work on the prototype to prepare it for its acceptance trials at the RAF’s testing station at Martlesham Heath next month! It’s a bit premature, isn’t it?’

  ‘He understands that. But he wants to have the procurement process ready to go as soon as the prototype clears the Martlesham trials. You can rest assured that “Quick’s the word, smart’s the action!” will be the order of the day up there with Stuffy cracking the whip.

  ‘Between you and me, RJ, I think he also needs the morale boost. To see for himself that this country still has some teeth, at least in his own area of responsibility, after all this kowtowing to foreign dictators. Of course you’re aware of the support he’s given us over recent years?’

  ‘Yes of course I’m aware of that, Bob.’

  ‘So is there any major obstacle to this visit?’

  ‘It’ll interrupt the flow of work a bit. But we’ve already swapped over the propeller. The only big operation planned for the next few days is installing the new engine that Rolls-Royce are sending us. Replacing the slow-starting unit. They’ll be sending some of their own fitters with it, so it shouldn’t hold us up too much.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Just small beer. We need to adjust the rudder horn balance, and fine-tune some of the instruments. That’s all at the moment.’

  ‘Good! I’ll let Stuffy know. Oh, and just one more wee thing, RJ. I understand the prototype hasn’t been painted yet and still looks like something the cat dragged in.’

  After over two centuries of their union with England, the Scots can still speak like Highlands crofters! ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite that way myself. But as it happens, our friends at Rolls-Royce are coming to our rescue on that front as well. They’ve put us onto the firm that applies the finish to their cars before they’re sold. So the prototype will be wearing her Sunday best for Dowding’s visit.’

  Eastleigh. Wednesday 18 March 1936, 11 am. On the access road leading to the aerodrome Mitchell and McLean see a police car up ahead, parked by the side of the road. A policeman carrying a clipboard is standing behind it and waves the Rolls down.

  ‘What’s this all about do you think, Bob?’ Mitchell wonders as he slows down.

  ‘Precautions,’ McLean replies, and winds down his window. ‘Sorry to trouble you, gentlemen, but do you have permission to proceed to the aerodrome today?’ the policeman asks.

  ‘Yes, Constable, we do. You’ve got a list of authorised personnel there in your hand and we’re on it. Mitchell and McLean.’

  The man looks at his list. His eyes widen – he’s speaking to a knight of the realm. ‘Indeed you are, sir. Sorry to bother you, sir. Please proceed.’

  Mitchell drives off. ‘Your idea then, Bob?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t want reporters and other sticky beaks poking around what we’re doing at this stage. The aerodrome is also closed to regular traffic this morning.’

  They leave the car in the parking area and walk towards the Supermarine hangar. The prototype is already standing in front of it, resplendent in its shiny new blue-grey livery, complete with vivid roundels and its registration number K5054 on its flanks and rudder. The sight seems to strike McLean speechless. He walks around it, sliding his hand over its smooth skin. Every rivet head has been ground down flush with the skin and has disappeared without trace under the paint.

  ‘Something the cat dragged in no longer, eh Bob?’ Mitchell teases. Mansbridge, Scales and Summers come out of the hangar to greet them. Mitchell wasn’t sure who would be flying the prototype today, and is glad to see Summers already suited up. He’ll put on a good show for the important guest without taking risks. He’s taken the plane up about eight times now, and must be intimate with it at this stage.

  In the distance Mitchell sees a large black Humber Snipe stopped at the police checkpoint. ‘He’s almost here, Bob. We should go and meet him.’

  They walk quickly back to the parking area. Mitchell struggles to pace it out casually, concealing the pain in his abdomen. He doesn’t want his colleagues to sense his personal predicament.

  A man in RAF uniform alights from the Humber’s driver’s seat, hurries round and opens the rear door on the left-hand side. He salutes as his tall, thin passenger – a man in his mid-fifties – gets out. He’s also in uniform, but sporting a lot of gold braid on his cap and tunic. Mitchell marvels at the incongruity of such a personage turning up without fanfare at a modest civilian aerodrome in the provinces.

  The familiar figure of Ralph Sorley appears from the other side of the car.

  McLean leads the introductions with an effort. ‘Good morning, Hugh, and welcome to Eastleigh. May I present Mr Reginald Mitchell, our chief designer and the man behind the prototype. RJ, I would like you to meet Air Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding.’

  Mitchell takes the air marshal’s proffered hand and endures the man’s intense gaze on him. The face, punctuated by a tightly clipped moustache, is friendly but unsmiling. It’s a face and a presence he knows he’ll never forget.

  ‘It’s an honour to meet you, sir.’

  ‘Likewise, Mitchell. Likewise. Your name has been reverberating around my neck of the woods for quite some time now. Always in glowing terms. You’ve already met my companion, Squadron Leader Sorley, I understand?’

  Mitchell turns to Sorley. ‘Yes, I have. Welcome back, Ralph.’

  ‘Thanks, Mitch. Glad to meet up with you again.’

  ‘You’re no doubt pressed for time, Hugh,’ McLean says. ‘So we’ll show you the prototype on the ground, and then have our chief test pilot take her up to demonstrate what she can do.’

  As the group approaches the prototype the men around it melt back into the hangar except for Summers, who stands his ground and waits to be introduced. After which Dowding walks searchingly around the prototype. He too can’t keep his hands off it, feeling its smooth
skin.

  Sorley sidles up to Mitchell. ‘You’ve outdone yourself, Mitch. Looks even better than the mock-up.’

  Mitchell nods and smiles in reply.

  Dowding steps back to take in the prototype as a whole. ‘Can a machine as beautiful as this also serve as the deadly weapon we’re looking for?’

  The question, directed to no-one in particular, hangs in the air.

  ‘Yes, well, we think so, Hugh,’ McLean says. ’And Summers here will presently show you why we do. I suggest we return to the parking area where we’ll have an unobstructed view of it in flight. We’ve brought some binoculars for you, too.’

  When the visitors have retraced their steps and equipped themselves with binoculars, Mitchell looks back towards the hangar to see Scales standing on the prototype’s wing root helping the helmeted figure in the cockpit with his harness. This done, Scales retreats from the machine and the starting sequence begins. The engine fires on the first attempt. The plane taxies out onto the airfield and turns into the wind. Dowding takes up his binoculars. His companions follow suit.

  Once airborne, the prototype makes two high-speed passes over the aerodrome before lifting its nose into a near-vertical climb to an altitude Mitchell estimates at around 5,000 feet. It then flips over onto its back before sliding sideways out of its half-completed loop to resume its climb. It enters into a series of tight turns and rolls, before rounding off its performance with a double flick-roll. With its exhilarating agility and breathtaking speed it once again creates an illusion of weightlessness.

  ‘God’s teeth!’ Sorley blurts out. ‘I thank my age and lucky stars I’ll never have to tangle with something like this!’

  ‘Indeed, Sorley,’ Dowding mutters, still staring up through his binoculars. ‘Are we not like those ancient sages of legend who saw the bow and arrow demonstrated for the first time? They feared that civilisation could never survive its spread. How long can civilisation survive when you let loose a weapon like this, armed with its eight rapid-fire machine-guns?’

  ‘Given our current predicament perhaps it’s the other way round now, Hugh,’ McLean says. ‘How long can civilisation survive without it?’

  Dowding lowers his binoculars and stares across at McLean.

  ‘Quite,’ he says.

  ‘Hazeldene’, Portswood, Southampton. Wednesday 25 March 1936, 7.30 am. At the kitchen table Mitchell pushes his empty breakfast plate away from him, draws his cup of tea closer, and opens the Southern Daily Echo. He freezes at the sight of the article on the second page:

  NEW SUPERMARINE FIGHTER

  FIVE MILES A MINUTE MONOPLANE

  HUSH-HUSH TRIALS AT SOTON

  Keen observers in and around Southampton have recently been interested in the high-speed performances of a remarkable plane which has made occasional flights from Eastleigh Aerodrome.

  The machine is the very latest type of single-seater fighter, designed and built for the RAF by The Supermarine Aviation Works (Vickers) Ltd at their factory in Woolston.

  Produced amid great secrecy, the plane is one of the fastest of its category in the world. Like all Supermarine aircraft, the new fighter was designed by Mr R.J. Mitchell, CBE, director and chief designer of the firm, who designed every British winner of the Schneider Trophy since the war.

  Even the uninitiated have realised when watching the streamlined monoplane flash across the sky at five miles a minute (300 mph) and more, that here is a plane out of the ordinary.

  ‘Bugger!’ Mitchell fumes out loud.

  Chapter 14

  An ill omen

  A consulting room for visiting specialists in the X-ray Department, St Mark’s Hospital, Harrow, northwest London. Thursday 16 April 1936, 11 am. Reginald Mitchell lies on the examination table with his abdomen exposed. His surgeon William Gabriel leans over him, his fingertips probing his patient’s belly.

  The surgeon’s eyes move backwards and forwards from his fingers to the light box on the wall above the table. It illuminates four glass radiographs attached to it. They display a pattern of blurry forms in various shades of grey, like clouds before rain.

  Mitchell dreads the outcome of this examination. Will it be the death sentence he’s been anticipating for weeks while he’s fended off his fear with his immersion in the Type 300 project? Even before the new pains started he remained conscious of Gabriel’s advice nearly three years ago, at the time of his operation: he had only a twenty percent chance of surviving five years.

  He steels himself to receive his sentence at the end of this encounter with Gabriel. At the same time he finds Gabriel’s concentration and careful touch strangely comforting. Even when his fingers find a particularly sensitive spot. ‘Sorry, Reg,’ the surgeon murmurs each time Mitchell winces.

  During Mitchell’s convalescence following his colostomy, the two men had grown closer. At the time Mitchell wondered whether the surgeon treated all his patients with such personalised care. Gabriel was clearly a dedicated practitioner, one who’d treat all comers to the best of his abilities. But in their conversations Gabriel hinted at his admiration for Mitchell’s own work and the comfort it brought him in the face of the new German menace. Perhaps he occupies a privileged place in Gabriel’s busy practice.

  ‘Right, then,’ Gabriel says. ‘You can get dressed again, Reg. And we can sit down and discuss this.’

  Patient and surgeon face each other across a small table placed against one of the room’s austere white walls. Mitchell finds no comfort in the surgeon’s expression.

  ‘I think I told you, at our very first meeting, that new cancers were likely to develop within three years after your operation. I suspect that this is what’s happened, in about four locations. But I can’t be sure, Reg. Radiography is still a mixed blessing, you see. Good for finding broken bones, and locating bullets and shrapnel we couldn’t otherwise track down. But it only gives us fuzzy images of soft tissue and the nasties that might be growing on it. Like a lot of other surgeons, I see it as inviting us to diagnose smudges.’

  ‘Does this mean you can’t give me a definite diagnosis?’

  ‘I’m afraid so at the moment. The anomalies you can see on the radiographs over on the wall there seem to roughly coincide with the sensitive spots I found when I examined you just now. That in itself bodes ill. But major bowel surgery – any major surgery in fact – can create a certain amount of turmoil in the body, including generating benign tumours. So far your symptoms aren’t severe enough for me to rule out that sort of thing and draw definite conclusions.’

  ‘What about exploratory surgery? Wouldn’t that give us certainty?’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend it. There are too many suspect areas as it is, and there may be tumours that are still too small to detect. Besides, exploratory surgery would be highly invasive. It would debilitate you, and in itself might spread the cancer. If indeed it’s cancer we’re looking at.’

  Mitchell sighs heavily. ‘I’m between the devil and the deep blue sea, then. I can’t find out if I’m dying without undergoing surgery that worsens my chances of survival.’

  ‘And stops you working in the meantime.’

  Mitchell stares back at him. ‘This is an excruciating dilemma I now find myself in.’

  ‘“Excruciating”, yes, I know, Reg. And you have my deepest sympathy as you go through this. But is it really a dilemma? We’re all of us dead men on leave, as the communists like to say. And none of us knows when he’ll be recalled from that leave. Our lives are much more precarious than we assume, though we just carry on as if they weren’t. Your life is more precarious than most, but that’s been the case for the last three years, as you know. Do you have any choice other than to carry on as you’re doing now? Waiting and seeing, while you get on with your life?’

  With his elbows resting on the table in front of him, Mitchell looks down and clutches his head in both hands as he ponders the question. ‘Not really. But what about treatments apart from surgery? I’ve seen items in the paper about cobalt a
nd X-ray radiation and the like that attack cancers. I’m aware of the old saying that if you consult a surgeon you’ll inevitably end up having an operation.’

  ‘As I told you when we first met, Reg, there are a lot of quacks offering miracle cures for cancer, including various kinds of radiotherapy. It’s a measure of how desperate cancer patients are. But I do keep an eye on actual scientific developments in radiotherapy. So far they’ve had a poor and dubious record in curing cancer, and sometimes do a lot of damage in the attempt.

  ‘One of the more promising specialists in the area is Dr Leopold Freund. I had a bit to do with him recently when I spent time at the General Hospital in Vienna, where he’s practised for decades. He’s notched up a few cures using X-ray radiation. But not – as far as I know – with bowel cancers.’

  ‘Should I arrange to see him, then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend that either. Chances of success are remote, and the risks are too great, even in the case of a careful practitioner like Freund. Look, Reg: different kinds of cancers grow at different rates, and at this stage we don’t even know if your cancer has returned or if you’re just suffering from the delayed after-effects of your colostomy. Sometimes cancers even go into remission. Although rarely – I don’t want to get your hopes up in that regard.’

  ‘So what’s your advice, Bill?’ Mitchell asks.

  ‘Let’s see. Is your present level of discomfort interfering with your work and your life?’

  ‘Yes and no. I’m in pain a lot of the time. But I’m living normally. I’m working as hard as ever on two projects – a fighter, and a new version of my existing amphibian, the Walrus – the rebadged Seagull V. And I’m thinking of working on a heavy bomber that the Air Ministry might soon issue a specification for.’