‘Good lord! That sounds like the work of three men, at least! And Picken tells me your new fighter prototype is sweeping all before it.’
‘He shouldn’t have commented on that. I asked him not to.’
‘It was a communication between your doctors, and thus privileged.’ Gabriel smiles. ‘And as citizens of a country facing a dire aerial threat from abroad these days, we have a personal stake in your fighter. Be that as it may, it sounds as if your work is unaffected so far. How about your life outside of work?’
Mitchell shrugs. ‘Flo and I socialise as much as ever. I play golf and go flying as often as time permits. And I take young Gordon to important sporting events when I get the chance.’
‘Very well, Reg. In the light of all that I suggest you carry on with your life as it is. Keep an eye on the pain level, especially any changes in it. Take an analgesic when it’s intense. Anything the chemist recommends will do. But if there’s any sustained change, come back and see me. I’ll tell my secretary to keep the door open for you. To book you in at short notice. In any event I’d like to see you again by the end of summer.’
The two men stand up. ‘Thank you for your time and advice, Bill,’ Mitchell says.
They shake hands, and Mitchell makes for the door.
‘Reg!’ Gabriel calls. Mitchell stops and looks back at him. ‘I’ll be thinking of you. A lot!’
Chapter 15
A Spitfire
Eastleigh aerodrome. Tuesday 26 May 1936, 12.30 pm. Mitchell parks his car in the parking area and smiles across at Flo in the passenger seat. He squeezes her hand, leans over to kiss her. She turns to face him, so that his kiss lands on her lips.
‘Thank you for the light early lunch, Flo. It’s set me up for the flight just nicely. As has the weather god. And thanks for carting me out here, too.’
‘You’re welcome, Reg. You can repay me by flying as carefully as you possibly can. You’ll let me know when to pick you up here tomorrow, won’t you? And don’t get up to too much mischief with Mutt in Ipswich tonight, darling.’
‘I didn’t know Ipswich laid on any mischief to get up to, my love. In any event, we’ll have had a long day. Comfortable rooms and beds in the fine hotel that the air force is providing will trump any local diversions, I imagine.’
These days even a brief parting like this tightens his heart and throat. Routine comings and goings have lost their ordinariness. He knows he stands in danger of losing everyone and everything that enrich his life. A sharp pain digs into his abdomen to underline the point. Ironically, he can’t remember ever feeling so alive. The approach of death in the foreseeable future lends piquancy to all those moments that would otherwise slip by unnoticed.
They both alight from the car, and she waits while he takes his flying gear and Gladstone bag from the back seat. They embrace and say their goodbyes before she walks around to the driver’s side, and he sets off towards the flying school’s hangar.
He’s hired one of its Gipsy Moths to fly to RAF Martlesham Heath in Suffolk. His more precise destination is the Aircraft and Armament Experimental Establishment – A&AEE to its habitués, home to the Performance Testing Squadron. Here the Type 300 prototype will face its critical test as an operational fighter.
His walk to the flying school takes him past the Supermarine hangar. The prototype stands in front of it. It glints in the sun, enjoying the attention of five technicians and workmen crawling all over it, overseen by its ‘nanny’, Ken Scales. Some are checking and adjusting controls, others seem to be simply polishing every last detail of its skin.
Mitchell reminds himself to stop thinking of it as the Type 300 prototype and to get used to its new, official name – the Spitfire. Bob McLean has won the argument on that score, and convinced the air force into the bargain.
Grudgingly Mitchell admits to himself that the name isn’t such a bad choice after all. There’d been general agreement that the name should begin with an ‘s’ on the ground that the plane called for a sibilant name to capture its serpentine menace. He’d originally rather liked ‘Shrew’; but ‘Spitfire’ was close to that word in meaning while also evoking the plane’s purpose. With its eight rapid-fire guns blazing at once, it will indeed be spitting fire.
Scales spots him when he’s twenty yards away and walks forward to greet him. ‘Good afternoon, RJ. Today’s her big day, eh? I hope Major Summers turns up in time to pick her up.’
‘He’s a busy man, Ken; but he’ll make it, don’t you worry. He’ll cover the 160 miles to Martlesham in half an hour in our pride and joy here.
It’ll take me at least two hours in the Moth, so I need to take off as soon as possible. Anyway, the people at the testing squadron have extended their hours of operation for today. The air force brass want some preliminary impressions by tonight.’
‘Christ, they’re in a damned hurry, aren’t they?’
‘Yes they are. The Martlesham lot usually spend a week stripping out the instruments and controls of a new prototype for fine tuning, exact measurement and putting back together again, before they even let a test pilot near it. But this time they’re trusting us to get all that right ourselves. Presumably the brass isn’t giving them any choice. As soon as Mutt lands there, they’ll hand her over to their test pilot this afternoon. And thank God for that.’
‘I bloody well hope they look after her, RJ.’
Mitchell detects the desolate undertone in his colleague’s voice. He reaches out and takes him by the shoulder. ‘Listen, Ken, I know how you must be feeling. I feel it too. Our little Spitfire is flying the coop. Making her own way in the world. It’ll be a while before we see her back here again. But she’ll be in good hands in Martlesham. You can imagine what the air force would do to any man who damages her.’
The Gipsy Moth stands waiting for him outside the flying school’s hangar. He remembers to use the lav before his flight, then summons one of the mechanics to swing the prop when he’s ready. He suits up, throws his bag into the forward cockpit and climbs into the rear one – a manoeuvre that is becoming more painful with each flight. How long will he be able to continue flying at this rate? He swats the question away. Soon he’s airborne and bearing north-northeast.
A beeline to Martlesham Heath would take him straight over London – a busy and regulated airspace. And the unappealing stink of coaldust would reach him even at fifteen hundred feet on a windless day like this. So he’s afforded himself the luxury of plotting a dogleg course that skirts the capital and takes him over countryside he wants to see before he dies: the Home Counties of Berkshire, Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire, and Essex.
The gentle swinging and pitching of the plane soothes his body. It’s lovely weather, almost summer. The air eddying behind his tiny windscreen feels quite warm as it caresses his face. He loves the contrasting landscapes below him: the patchwork of intense farming, then the undulating slopes of the Chiltern Hills – chalk country like the South Downs he’s familiar with, only more wooded with its abundance of spreading beech trees.
He drops down a couple of hundred feet and dips his wings here and there to get a closer view of some of the fine country houses. In a couple of cases people are finishing their lunch at garden tables in the sunshine. They look up and wave at him. He jiggles his wings to return the greeting while toying with the fantasy of landing in an adjacent field and joining them.
From the Chilterns he heads off on a more easterly bearing, eventually catching sight of the Suffolk heathlands up ahead. The airfield advertises its presence with the hangars, workshops and mess huts that cluster around its eastern perimeter. As he flies his obligatory circuit around it, he can just make out the English Channel off to the east.
He lines up his gliding approach with some care. He can still show those cocky young RAF types a thing or two about airmanship! The prop beats a soft rhythm on the air as the engine idles and the ground rises up to meet him. His wheels and rear skid kiss the turf simultaneously, with no suggestion of bouncing.
As soon as he begins to clamber out of the cockpit Mitchell feels the stiffness in his body, foregrounded by the pain in his abdomen. When he’s flying he doesn’t feel the pain. Is that because of the reduced air pressure up there, he wonders, or just due to the joy of flying which masks the discomfort?
Three workmen in overalls greet him and push the Moth towards the hangar after he’s clambered out of his flying overalls and tossed them into the cockpit with his helmet. At the same time two officers approach him.
‘Welcome to the Performance Testing Squadron, Mr Mitchell,’ says the taller one, and proffers his hand. ‘I’m Squadron Leader Ted Hilton, the CO here. And this is Flight Lieutenant Humphrey Edwardes Jones who’ll be flying your prototype this afternoon.’
Mitchell takes special note of the sandy-haired test pilot, wondering if his creation will be safe in this man’s hands. He looks to be around thirty, so presumably quite experienced.
‘A pleasure to meet you both,’ Mitchell replies as he shakes their hands in turn. ‘I’ve had a bit to do with specialised RAF squadrons over the years, and their members have all called me Mitch.’
‘Splendid!’ Hilton replies, albeit with raised eyebrows. ‘We’re EJ and Ted, in that case. Come into the flight office and we can all have a cuppa, Mitch. You’ll be needing it. And a pit stop too, I imagine. Must have been a long flight from Southampton in that old crate of yours.’
Mitchell stands in too much need of both offered comforts to bother defending the Moth’s honour.
While Edwardes Jones is pouring the tea, the phone on Hilton’s desk rings. ‘Hilton!’ he barks into it. ‘Yes. Good. Thank you,’ he says, and thumps the receiver back onto its cradle. He turns to his companions. ‘Summers has just taken off from Eastleigh. He’ll be here by the time we’ve finished our tea.’
‘I’m impressed with the urgency you’re all bringing to testing our little product,’ Mitchell says.
‘We’ve every reason to, Mitch. We don’t know when war will break out. We do know it’ll be all about air supremacy, and we’re outnumbered four to one in frontline aircraft. Your “little product” is the light shining at the end of a very dark tunnel. That’s why the brass are leaning on us so heavily. Air Marshal Sir Wilfrid Freeman – the new Member of the Air Council in charge of research and development – swears he won’t leave his office tonight until EJ here rings him to give his preliminary assessment. So I’m packing him off in the Spitfire just as soon as we’ve refuelled it.’
‘What about the rest of your routine testing?’
‘We’ll do all that in the coming days. But it’ll just be about fine-tuning the aircraft. Hopefully the decision to go into production will already have been made.’
‘Is there a particular concern in the brass’s minds?’
‘Yes, one. Under the current expansion scheme the air force will be recruiting heavily. It’ll call for an enormous training effort. How can we be sure we can train all these new squadron pilots to fly something as sophisticated as your machine?’
‘I’ve spoken to Mutt Summers about that already,’ Edwardes Jones cuts in. ‘He says the plane just about flies itself.’
‘All our own test pilots have made comments like that,’ Mitchell says. ‘But I’m not here as a salesman. Just to answer your questions. Test pilots are a breed apart, and might not be able to put themselves in the position of a trainee anymore.’
The sound of an aircraft overhead halts the conversation. The deep growl accompanied by the whistling overtone is unmistakeable.
‘Anyway, here it comes,’ Mitchell comments. All three hasten to their feet and make their way outside.
The Spitfire flies its circuit round the airfield, once more flaunting its graceful lines before it glides down to land. The guide on the motorbike leads it up to the A Flight hangar. Once parked, the engine falls silent and the flailing prop comes to a stiff standstill.
Even before Summers can extricate himself from the cockpit the airfield comes to life. The refuelling tender rants in its urgency to reach the plane. Up to thirty men – some in overalls, some in uniform with pilot’s wings stitched into them, some sporting officers’ insignia – hurry towards it from the various buildings. They examine it up close; they comment and exclaim over it. Mitchell looks on in astonishment. Its reputation seems to have gone before it.
Summers hops down from the wing root and greets Mitchell and his two companions who, it now appears, are old acquaintances. Edwardes Jones takes Summers by the arm and leads him away to the hangar for a quick consultation, test-pilot-to-test-pilot.
The men around the plane soon work out who the stranger in civilian rig is. They crowd around Mitchell and ply him with eager questions about it. His mind flashes back to working with men like this – exuberant young air force types who’d found their way into a specialist unit – in the High Speed Flight at Calshot during successive preparations for the Schneider contests. He’s right back in his element here.
‘What’s it like to fly this beauty, sir?’ one young flight sergeant asks.
‘I don’t know. The only plane I’ve ever flown myself is a Gipsy Moth.’
His audience finds his answer amazing and hilarious in turns.
The two test pilots emerge from the hangar and make their way to the plane. Edwardes Jones has donned his flying gear, while Summers has shed his. The former steps up onto the wing root and climbs into the cockpit, with his companion right behind him. Summers crouches beside the hatch, helps the new pilot with his harness, and spends some minutes answering Edwardes Jones’s questions about the instruments and controls. Then he jumps down to the ground, waving the men gathered around the plane to move away. By now the RAF pilot has buckled on his oxygen mask; he’ll be putting the Spitfire through its paces at high altitude, it appears.
The control surfaces of the plane waggle as he checks them before firing the engine. That sweet music again! The exhaust stubs along the nose belch smoke, the chocks are hauled away, the engine note rises, and the plane is heading out onto the turf for its take-off run. Mitchell gains the impression that Edwardes Jones has the same deft touch with the plane as Summers does. He pulls off the same dramatic take-off and steep climb away from the field. One befitting an exemplary interceptor.
The plane shrinks and vanishes in the clear blue sky. The engine note fades into silence. But the gathering that saw the plane off stays put, engaging in more animated conversation in small groups. Mitchell glances at his watch: it’s after 5.30 pm.
‘Don’t you chaps knock off before this, Ted?’
‘All flying usually ceases around here at five, and that’s the end of the working day. Not today, though. This is a special occasion. These men won’t leave until EJ lands again. You watch.’
After half an hour the drone of an aero engine is heard. All eyes search for its source.
‘That’s not the Spitfire!’ Hilton exclaims with some irritation. ‘It’s one of my men delivering a Fury from Hawkers in Brooklands! Bit late in the day, damn it.’
Mitchell too recognises the biplane fighter with its fixed undercarriage. Yet another example of Sidney Camm’s traditionalism – one that’s actually equipping some RAF fighter squadrons right now. Trust Camm’s machine to gatecrash the Spitfire’s big moment! The biplane completes its circuit and begins its final approach.
‘Here’s the prototype coming in to land, too!’ a voice shouts.
It is indeed on approach, coming in from the north. A dangerous situation. The Fury pilot seems oblivious to the other plane’s p
resence. Fortunately Edwardes Jones seems to have spotted the Fury – he lowers his flaps to slow the Spitfire’s glide. It seems to hang in the air, waiting its turn. When the Fury clears the field, the Spitfire’s flaps return to their neutral position and the plane resumes a normal approach, its nose tilted up.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Summers explodes. ‘He hasn’t lowered his bloody wheels!’
It’s another chilling moment. Most pilots have no experience of retractable undercarriages and can easily forget to lower them when they’re landing more advanced aircraft. A distraction like the Fury’s arrival could easily make even an experienced pilot like Edwardes Jones forget to do so. Mitchell is seized with a familiar dread. He’s aware of the sharp intakes of breath around him.
The Spitfire is nearing the Ipswich to Woodbridge road just beyond the perimeter fence, revealing its alarmingly bare underside. Suddenly the wheels and their struts erupt – splayed like a ballet dancer’s legs – from underneath the wing roots. The struts arc into the parallel position. The wheels resemble the talons of an eagle stretching down and forward to seize its prey.
Edwardes Jones executes an impeccable three-point landing, leaving Mitchell wondering what on earth has just happened. Was this just another flourish by an exhilarated test pilot, or a balls-up corrected at the very last minute? Whichever, the consequences of a mishap would have been disastrous. He glances across at Hilton, whose face is ashen.
The rest of the audience treats the landing as just part of the show. It cheers boisterously as the plane taxies up to the hangar and Edwardes Jones cuts the engine. The men crowd around the port side of the plane as he climbs out of the cockpit. He grins down at them as he stands on the wing root, while they fire the predictable questions at him.
‘At this stage all I can tell you is this,’ he says. ‘Everything you’ve heard about this machine is true. And if I were a Hun airman and saw I’d attracted the attention of one of these things, I’d bail out immediately!’ He receives a laugh and another cheer. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, chaps, I have to deliver a more sensible report to my higher-ups.’
Love, Death, Chariot of Fire Page 19