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.
38
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 pr
etty 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.
39
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.
‘Gordon Levett...’ He too was English. Lean and hungry looking. Ex-R.A.F. He seemed to know Kastner and Shameer.
Kastner took charge immediately and shepherded us to an adjoining office littered with maps and charts.
‘Here’s the dope,’ he said without preamble. ‘As you know the Arabs (he pronounced it A-rabs) are determined to stop the Spitfires from getting through to Burma and have closed the old route via Cyprus. Air Services have, of course, cancelled their contract. The Israeli Government have decided to supervise the flights themselves using a different route and have appointed me as leader.’ He smiled apologetically at me as though acknowledging that there was a remote case for my leading the flights.
‘How many flights?’ asked Sonny.
‘I am not sure yet. Seven aircraft have already been delivered by Air Services. Right, Jackie?’
‘Right,’ I clipped in mimicry.
‘That leaves twenty-three to be delivered. There’s four of us; that’s six flights with someone unlucky on the last trip.’
I looked carefully out of the window.
‘Now,’ he said seriously, ‘for the route.’ We crouched around him as he laid the maps on the floor and pointed to the route heavily scored with red pencil. ‘To avoid Arab territory we’ll be flying direct from Israel to Diyarbekir in Turkey for our first refuelling halt. From there due east over Turkey until we get to the Iran border then we can turn south for Kermanshah. From then on it will be plain sailing to Abadan-Sharja-Karachi-Jodhpur-Cawnpore-Calcutta and Rangoon. The trickiest leg is the first from Israel to Diyarbekir. We’ll have to go well out over the Mediterranean to avoid Lebanon and Syria. If we get intercepted, they’ll shoot and ask questions afterwards. We’re all individually insured for ten thousand Sterling,’ he added with a puckish grin.
I looked at the maps. The new route, 500 miles longer than the old, curved like a question mark around the Lebanon, Syria and Iraq.
‘What do you think, Jackie?’ asked Kastner, with the deference due to my recent experience.
‘The Diyarbekir-Kermanshah leg looks a bit grim if the weather is bad.’
We pondered over the dark mauve shading, mountains, that flanked the route and surrounded Kermanshah.
‘Yup,’ agreed Kastner, ‘but there’s no alternative. We’ll just have to make sure the weather is O.K. before we take off.’
Wise words, I thought, but Meteorology is not yet an exact science.
We discussed the route, visas and fuel carnets before Kastner closed the meeting. ‘We’ll have plenty of time to discuss details in Tel Aviv. I’m leaving almost immediately to test the Spits. You’ll be leaving for Israel on the tenth of January, Gordon here will take you around to El Al’s office to collect your plane tickets. Liaise with him and Shameer. O.K.?’
At El Al’s office in Regent Street we sat waiting for our tickets. On the walls were stylized photographs of orange groves and antiquities. We were a little shy with each other.
‘I’m glad we’ve got a contract. You have to be careful with these people,’ I observed, for want of something better to say.
‘What people?’ asked Levett, eyebrows raised.
‘Oh, you know. Jews.’
‘I don’t,’ he replied. ‘Tell me.’
Pedant, I classified him immediately, and changed the subject.
Reg, resigned, and Jill saw me off at Taunton. We were blissfully unaware that it would be nine months before we met again.
In the El Al Constellation it was not long before we became Sonny, Gordon and Jackie. Sonny, a raconteur, sipped coffee – ‘I always go on the wagon when I’m flying’ – and spun splendid tales of the good old days of flying. Gordon drank beer and was monosyllabic. I tried to make friends.
‘Do you know Kastner?’
‘Yes.’
I tried again. ‘When?’
‘During the war. The Arab-Israel war.’
‘Flying?’
‘Yes.’
Levett. Levett? Oh Lord, he’s Jewish. I flushed at the memory of my gaffe in El Al’s office.
‘What’s Israel like?’ I asked meekly.
‘Dreadful place,’ he said ironically, ‘full of Jews.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean...’
‘I know,’ he said wearily. ‘Some of your best friends are Jews.’
A little later the air-hostess served coffee and biscuits.
‘Pretty girl,’ I observed hopefully.
Levett grinned. ‘Yes, she’s Jewish. A Jewish girl in a Jewish plane flown by Jews to Jewland. You’re in a tough spot.’
‘Touche.’
We got along a little better after that. And slept.
Leo, wearing an outrageous Miami beach shirt, and slacks, welcomed us at Lydda Airport. ‘Hiya kids. Good trip?’ I glanced at Sonny, old enough to be Leo’s father, but his good-natured features smiled.
‘I’ve got rooms for you at the Yarkon Hotel in Tel Aviv. It’s near the beach,’ he added. Overhead a Spitfire swooped low in welcome before climbing steeply away in the warm, brilliant sunshine. ‘That’s Hugo. He’s helping with the testing.’
There was a crush in the airport reception lounge. A babble of German, French, Slav, Russian, tears and emotion.
‘What’s going on over there?’ as
ked Sonny.
‘New immigrants. It’s like that every day,’ answered Leo. ‘The population of Israel has doubled in the last two years.’
‘What does ‘‘Shalom’’ mean?’ I asked.
‘Peace be with you.’
Shalom. Shalom. I liked it and tried it out on the chauffeur, a German Jew. He was delighted and insisted that I sit next to him on the drive through eucalyptus and citrus groves to Tel Aviv. The six-figure number tattooed on his arm, he explained, was a concentration camp number.
During the drive he told me about Israel. Its conception was simple. A stroke of the pen by the British Government of 1917 who promised a ‘National Home’ in Palestine for the Jews scattered two thousand years before but still retaining their mystical yearning for their homeland. Gestation was uneasy as Arab and Jew fought bitterly over the interpretation of the words ‘National Home’. For thirty years Britain administered the Mandate and was torn between the insoluble contradiction of establishing the Jewish ‘Home’ without prejudice to the rights of the Arabs already living in Palestine. This was a problem that only Solomon could solve. The British Government, a dubious rose, between militantly belligerent thorns, and certainly no Solomon, terminated her responsibilities by, in 1948, ending the Mandate and evacuating. An open invitation to the Jew and Arab to let force equate the irresistible and the irremovable. Birth, then, was bloody. The Jews, alone as Britain was alone in 1940 but with no English Channel or air force to prevent invasion, were attacked by Egypt, Trans-Jordan, Syria, Iraq and Lebanon. ‘Don’t ask me how,’ continued the chauffeur, ‘but we won.’ The invasion failed and Israel was reborn after two thousand years. A unique atavism.
‘Today,’ concluded the chauffeur as the outskirts of Tel Aviv punctuated the sky-line, ‘we are eight years old and still struggling for life against the Arab blockade.’
A few days after our arrival in Israel we drove out to the nationalized aircraft overhaul base – ‘Bedek’ – at Lydda Airport, to test the Spitfires. Sonny and Gordon had insisted that I wear my scarlet jeans and a white sweater that had shrunk a bit in the wash.
‘Hiya, kid,’ welcomed Leo, appraising me with a gleam in his eye. ‘That’s the stuff. It’ll kill ’em.’
Spitfire Girl Page 16