Spitfire Girl

by Jackie Moggridge

  ‘Let’s walk.’

  We walked over the dunes and wadis. Over alternating mud and burning sand. Walked until the aircraft and the windsock were out of sight.

  ‘I think this is you,’ I observed suddenly.

  ‘Say again,’ he grinned cynically, breaking the spell. It was cruel and the anger that always seemed near when I was with him, rose again to the surface. ‘Sometimes I think you are stupid!’

  We returned without speaking to the Spitfires, sat on our parachutes and picked idly at the arid sandwiches.

  ‘Talk,’ I ordered.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Anything. You must have something to say about something.’

  ‘Well, here we are ladies and gentlemen, lazing under the tropical skies, watching the vast panorama of nature...’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ Suddenly he turned to me. We stared at each other, hovering. Simultaneously we dropped our eyes and I swallowed the piece of dry bread that had lodged in my throat.

  ‘What about the ‘‘T’’?’ I reminded.

  We walked to the northern end of the field and selected a position for the ‘‘T”.

  ‘I’m glad it isn’t a ‘‘W’’,’ he observed.

  ‘I don’t see what difference...’ I said, striving to maintain the change of subject.

  ‘I’ll draw a picture,’ he said. ‘The ‘‘W’’ goes down, up, down and up again. The ‘‘T’’...’

  ‘All right, pedant.’

  We plucked some of the whitewashed stones that bordered the landing area and began laying out the outline of the ‘‘T’’. Obstinately I selected large stones and staggered under their weight, whilst he then ostentatiously gathered tiny fragments. This farce went on for two minutes before I surrendered and collapsed in a crumbled heap on to the sand. Gordon leered malignantly, murmuring something about the emancipation of women, and carried on working.

  After two hours the ‘T’ was finished and we lay down beside it, admiring our handiwork.

  ‘It isn’t straight,’ I pointed out.

  ‘It is,’ he argued. I got up, walked fifty yards along the landing strip, knelt on the sand and sighted my eyes down the shank of the ‘T.’ It was two or three degrees out of parallel with the runway. ‘It isn’t,’ I shouted. He joined me, lay flat on the ground and squinted at the ‘T.’ ‘You win,’ he smiled, turning to me, ‘but it stays that way.’

  I agreed with a nod and we returned to the Spitfires.

  We lay on our parachutes, dozing and sipping the blood-warm lemonade. The sentry joined us and stared curiously. I offered him a drink. He appraised it dubiously, sipped it, spat with a grimace and smiled apologetically. He looked at my legs and thighs stretched tightly in the khaki slacks, moved his eyes to Gordon, back to my thighs, shrugged and trudged off to the farthest end of the field.

  ‘Wonder what he dreams about,’ commented Gordon idly before we dozed.

  Gordon’s voice woke me. ‘We’ve had it for today. The Rapide isn’t coming.’

  ‘Nor Leo,’ I added, glancing at the sun and my watch. It was three-thirty.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed today,’ remarked Gordon, without preamble.

  I nodded in assent. ‘I’ve enjoyed it too.’

  Promptly at four o’clock a cloud of dust signified the arrival of the jeep.

  That evening, after an austere supper, we sat on the veranda overlooking Bandar Abbas. The unshaded fight swung gently in the evening breeze, like an incense burner, and threw shadows across our faces. The distant murmur, of the Persian Gulf emphasized the calm of the sky as I sang snatches from light opera; the lyrics adding poignancy to the extraordinary peace that I felt.

  44

  The following morning Gordon drove out alone to the airfield whilst I attended to our smalls. He returned, to my surprise, shortly after noon, streaked with oil and mud. ‘The bloody jeep broke down,’ he said.

  ‘Must you swear?’

  ‘Sorry. You can take the bloody thing next time and I’ll do the washing,’ he answered vehemently.

  I laughed, despite myself.

  Leo had flown over from Sharja. A propeller was being flown from Israel to Abadan by a Sabena aircraft chartered to bring Jewish immigrants from Bombay to Israel. From Abadan the arrangements were still vague. The cost of chartering the Rapide aircraft was prohibitive and, consequently, this idea had been dropped.

  ‘That means,’ commented Gordon, ‘we won’t have to go out to the field every day.’

  Leo was still receiving a stream of contradictory cables, one of which ordered that I should leave Gordon behind and join the others at Sharja as soon as possible.

  ‘That’s stupid,’ I protested.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why don’t Leo and Sonny go on to Burma and you and I continue as soon as your prop arrives? Supposing you go down, nobody will know where you are. If the two of us fly together, at least we will be able to pin-point the position if one of us should crash.’

  ‘True enough,’ replied Gordon, ‘but enough time has been wasted already. The Burmese want at least three Spits as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Why three? Why not two, or four?’ I interjected heatedly. ‘One Spitfire isn’t going to make all that difference.’

  ‘Well, Leo’s the boss and that’s the way he wants it. Anyway I can fly to Burma in short hops. I’ll land at Jiwani to refuel...’

  ‘What about Calcutta-Rangoon?’

  ‘I can land at Akyab.’

  I felt a little happier about it. By landing at these intermediate aerodromes he could cut down on the long sea crossings and fly closer to the coasts. ‘All right,’ I admitted reluctantly, doubting that he would in fact detour. ‘When do you think I can leave?’

  ‘I suggested to Leo about three days’ time, provided we have no more rain. I checked the field this morning. It’s still dangerous. If you don’t arrive at Sharja by Monday Leo will fly over to see what’s happening. He won’t come again otherwise.’

  ‘Fine. What about the batteries?’

  ‘Blast! I forgot them. The radio was weak this morning. I meant to bring them in. I’ll have to drive back to the field. Pop over to Dustmalchi and see whether he can arrange to have them charged somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ I replied formally.

  He grinned and left.

  On Saturday we drove out to the field, accompanied by the engineer and a few labourers, to prepare the strip for my departure.

  After examining the field we chose a take-off path a few yards to the left of centre of the north-south strip. The labourers scrutinized every inch and filled in the treacherous soft patches with dry shingle. We walked and worked with them, their dignity bringing lustre to the comradeship. The engineer swore vehemently at one who accidentally knocked his spade against the wheel of my aircraft. Gordon walked quickly over to the labourer, patted him on the back and offered him a cigarette. He walked back to me, saw my eyes and blushed furiously.

  ‘Why?’ I asked, knowing the answer but wanting his admission of sensitivity.

  ‘He looked hurt,’ he replied, avoiding my eyes.

  ‘You have hurt me many times.’

  ‘You can take care of yourself,’ he answered neutrally, walking away.

  ‘It is strange that you two are married,’ observed the engineer.

  I reddened. ‘Why do you say that?’

  He looked at me shrewdly. ‘You both behave as though you are still courting.’

  I turned uncertainly to the aircraft, as the engineer left to drive his truck for over an hour monotonously up and down the field, the wheels crushing the surface into some semblance of firmness. Gordon and I checked my Spitfire before we washed the mud from the undercarriage and radiators, checked the level of the oil, petrol and glycol, polished the windscreen and fitted the newly charged battery.

  ‘Do you want to run the engine?’ asked Gordon.

  ‘What about the battery?’

  ‘You’re right. We should save it until you are ready to
go. I’ll pull the prop through.’ He struggled, like Laocoön with the snake, turning the propeller until the sweat dripped from his aquiline nose. ‘Seems O.K.,’ he gasped. ‘She’s ready to go.’

  We tied the Spitfires down for the night and walked slowly along the strip on a final inspection. It was a serious moment. ‘I still don’t like it,’ commented Gordon, with a frown, stamping his heel into the surface. ‘If you go over on your back you haven’t a chance. There is nothing here to get you out.’

  ‘I’m not leaving until tomorrow. It will be better then.’

  The engineer drove up in his truck. ‘What do you think?’ I called as he jumped down from the seat.

  ‘I know nothing of flying,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘These are the first aeroplanes I have seen here in three years. The last one was a Russian. They also were bogged... for three weeks. What do they weigh?’ he added, nodding to the Spitfires.

  ‘About seven thousand pounds with the present fuel load,’ I answered.

  ‘Hum, just over three tons.’ He pursed his lips. ‘It’s a pity we haven’t got a roller. Can you not wait a few more days?’

  ‘I’d rather she left as soon as possible,’ said Gordon.

  ‘Do they gain speed quickly?’ asked the engineer.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered.

  ‘She should be airborne in a 150 yards,’ added Gordon.

  ‘Is she a good pilot?’ enquired the engineer, appraising me dubiously.

  ‘Lousy,’ grinned Gordon.

  ‘Ah. I have met the English before. That means she is good. I think,’ he continued, ‘that tomorrow will be difficult. Perhaps the next day...’

  ‘Well try taxi-ing tomorrow,’ answered Gordon firmly. ‘If she can taxi, then she can take off. Two o’clock. That will give the sun more time to dry it out. Will you be here?’

  ‘Of course,’ answered the engineer.

  ‘And about fifteen labourers, a fast truck, axes, ropes, buckets and shovels. Just in case.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Will you call the men? I’d like to explain tomorrow’s programme and what I want them to do.’

  ‘We should give them something,’ I suggested.

  ‘Would you mind if we did?’ enquired Gordon.

  ‘It isn’t necessary,’ answered the engineer.

  ‘But we want to,’ I insisted.

  ‘As you wish,’ shrugged the engineer. He called them over.

  ‘The lady pilot is taking off tomorrow,’ commenced Gordon, nodding to the engineer to translate. ‘The ground is not very satisfactory but it will be many days before the surface is completely dry and she must leave immediately.’

  The engineer continued translating volubly. The labourers whispered amongst themselves, shaking their heads.

  ‘There is’, continued Gordon, ‘a very slight possibility that the aeroplane may suddenly stick in the mud and go over on its back. If it does, it may catch fire, with the lady pilot trapped inside.’

  After the engineer translated this, with suitable gestures, the men shook their heads violently. We had become good friends.

  ‘Therefore if an accident does happen, we haven’t much time. Before she starts her take-off we will all get into the truck with axes, ropes, poles and buckets of sand. When the lady pilot starts her take-off we will follow her in the truck. If she crashes we must get this side panel open,’ he pointed to the emergency release panel, ‘with axes if necessary and pull her out. If there is a fire we will use the sand buckets. If we can’t get her out that way then we must lift one wing and try to release her from underneath... We will need about fifteen men to lift the wing,’ he added. He waited until the engineer completed his translation. ‘Just one more thing. If there is a fire, it is possible that the petrol tanks may explode.’ There was a mutter, almost of rebellion, as they looked accusingly at Gordon. ‘It is the lady pilot’s wish that she leave as soon as possible,’ he explained hurriedly.

  ‘Will you detail two men for the axes and three for the buckets. The remainder are to stand clear until I give other instructions. Explain to them they must not get in each other’s way.’

  The engineer assented.

  ‘Everything clear?’

  ‘Perfectly. They offer their prayers.’

  ‘I prefer their sinews,’ replied Gordon sardonically.

  ‘I think I should be the one to decide that,’ I interjected. ‘Tell them I return their prayers.’

  Gordon raised an eyebrow and stared coldly at me. For fully fifteen seconds we glared at each other. Finally he sighed, rummaged in his pockets and gave the men our tokens of gratitude. They accepted the money graciously, without servility.

  ‘Sorry by the way, to make that speech of mine so melo­dramatic. I wanted them to understand that tomorrow will be no joke,’ explained Gordon.

  ‘I understand,’ I answered, furious with myself that he could soothe my ruffled feelings so easily. His mastery of insult, followed by the soft manner, left me swinging like a pendulum between active dislike and regard.

  We collected the shovels and other equipment and got into the truck. The labourers climbed in the back and braced themselves for the rough ride back to Bandar Abbas. I looked back at my Spitfire straddling the desert, its potential returned. Tomorrow I would fly again... perhaps.

  That evening I said good-bye to our friends. Gordon bought some beer and we sat on the veranda with Dustmalchi and his wife; the engineer; the army colonel who returned my passport; the doctor, and his wife who still stared at me with a puzzled frown. It was a sad gathering, for most of them were exiled in Bandar Abbas and politely envied my impending departure. After they left, Gordon and I continued sitting on the veranda, I with my thoughts, he with the last bottles of beer. I waited for the aggressiveness that always followed whenever he drank beer in my presence.

  ‘I’m going to miss you,’ he said.

  ‘It won’t be for long. Your prop should arrive within a week. You will probably meet up with us in Rangoon,’ I answered, pleased with his admission.

  ‘Maybe. You might start on the next trip before I return to Tel Aviv.’ He poured another glass. ‘I wouldn’t like that,’ he added.

  ‘Neither would I,’ I observed, the words echoing significantly in the soft midnight air. I savoured them again like a wine merchant tasting an unexpectedly pleasing vintage.

  He got up and leaned against the balustrade that overlooked Bandar Abbas. Turning, he beckoned me to join him. For the last time I gazed at the feeble lights and listened to the painful honking of a nearby mule. I knew that this was a moment that would be recalled many times in my life. Overhead the moon, its valleys clearly visible, tugged treacherously at me as though I were the tides to be pushed and pulled at its command. Defiantly I returned to my chair. He turned, his ally the moon mocking me from his shoulder. It seemed as though he commanded nature; the sea glittering with silver; the sky with stars; the dark mountains isolating Bandar Abbas from the rest of the world; even the zephyr breeze had calmed, awaiting the outcome of this moment.

  ‘I think you should go to bed,’ he announced baldly, flicking his cigarette over the balustrade.

  Without a word I left.

  As I lay in bed I could hear him pacing overhead. His footsteps echoed hollowly, like a drum. Suddenly the footsteps ceased their monotonous indecision and clumped downstairs. There was a determination in them that frightened me. Quickly I turned on my side and feigned sleep.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ he whispered.

  I did not answer. Neither did I answer the sigh that followed. His lips brushed my temple like a shadow before he creaked into his camp-bed. I lay silently, secretly touching my temple.

  ‘Good-night,’ I said quietly, wanting him to know I knew he had kissed me. But it was too late. He was asleep.

  45

  At noon the following day we ate a Spartan lunch of cheese, olives and goat’s milk, packed my luggage and drove to the airfield. Behind us, invisible in the cloud of dust, trailed our frien
ds in a convoy of jeeps and lorries. Ahead, the horizon shimmered in the heat, making the palm trees look like women dancing with their skirts held high. Gordon sat beside me, his face inscrutable. Unable to emulate his example, I hid my emotions behind my sunglasses. My stomach was tight with the vicarious thrill that presages all my flights.

  As my Spitfire appeared, parked on the edge of the airfield, as though born of the desert, I felt grateful for its uncompromising appeal; its ability to soar with me into the waiting sky, to cut the umbilical cord of care and transport me to a world of ego, simplicity and space.

  Gordon squeezed my bags into the gun panels as I gave the aeroplane a cursory inspection. Everything was ready; the bond already welded that separated the Spitfire and me from those who were to be left behind. I strapped on my parachute and helmet and climbed into the cockpit. By now we were surrounded by peasants. Gordon motioned them back until they stood in a long thin line like spectators at a football match. I waved good-bye to them as Gordon jumped up on the wing to help me with my straps.

  ‘All set?’ asked Gordon.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered.

  ‘O.K. Start her up and taxi down to the other end of the field. You’ll have to switch off there and let her cool down.’

  ‘O.K.,’ I replied. I adjusted the controls; petrol on, parking brake on, mixture set to idle cut-off, throttle slightly open. ‘All clear?’ I shouted.

  ‘All clear,’ answered Gordon.

  ‘Contact!’ Impatiently she burst into life. The instruments rose sluggishly into action. Anxiously I watched the oil pressure gauge; she had been sitting idle for a long time. Slowly it rose, 50,60,70... 75. Just right. I signalled Gordon to pull the stones away from the wheels, and gingerly opened the throttle. Would she move? Like a jockey I urged her on. Slowly she inched forward; I gave her more throttle as she lurched uncertainly through the clinging top-soil. Gordon and the spectators had vanished in the sand driven from my slipstream.