Spitfire Girl

by Jackie Moggridge

  I taxied slowly to the end of the field, turned, lined up carefully with the take-off path and switched off. The silence was deafening. The field had disappeared in a cloud of sand. I sat, waiting patiently, until Gordon and the others appeared dimly through the cloud.

  Gordon jumped up on the wing, his face and hair covered with dust; his eye-lashes exaggerated as though with beige mascara. ‘How was it?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Not bad,’ I answered encouragingly. ‘I needed about 1300 revs to keep her moving.’

  ‘As much as that?’ he frowned.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want to try it? It’s up to you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How are the temperatures?’

  ‘A bit high. Radiator’s about a hundred and five. I’ll wait a few minutes.’

  ‘Do you want to jump out?’

  ‘It isn’t worth it. I’ll sit here.’ I eased off my helmet and loosened the straps. We waited with the embarrassed suspension of waiting for a train to leave. The engineer’s truck was parked nearby.

  ‘Don’t forget, keep your brakes on as long as you can as you open the throttle. As soon as you feel the tail coming up slam on full throttle, through the gate, and watch out for the swing. She’ll swing like hell at plus eighteen boost. Use full right rudder bias on your trim. Keep the stick back when you open the throttle. If you go over, cut your switches and petrol. We’ll be right with you.’ His face was creased with worry; he couldn’t keep still.

  ‘Stop fussing. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Keep your carburettor air filter open, that will give you another inch of boost’

  ‘What about the sand?’

  ‘To hell with the sand.’ We waited another five minutes. ‘She’s cool enough now.’

  He helped me with the straps, trussing me up like a chicken.

  ‘Hey, that’s too tight,’ I protested.

  ‘It won’t be if you go over on your back.’

  I put my helmet on.

  ‘All set?’

  ‘All set,’ I replied.

  He grasped my hand, squeezed it and fussed with my harness. Deliberately I left my oxygen mask off. The spectators and labourers watched silently. The doctor’s wife wore a look of worried comprehension.

  ‘You had better kiss me good-bye,’ I suggested as lightly as I could. ‘We are supposed to be married.’

  He leaned down into the cockpit and kissed me. It was an awkward kiss. The helmet strap disciplined my lips, the struggle for balance his. But there was a delicacy and honour in the kiss that was a fitting tribute to our relationship. And a fitting end. I felt proud that we had resisted turning an elusive yet profound intimacy into something of which at this moment, now that it must end, we would have felt ashamed. It had been a parenthesis in both our lives. We acknowledged its significance, and its demise, as our eyes lingered in farewell.

  ‘Call me on the R/T after you take off,’ he said shyly. ‘I’ll be listening out on my Spit. Tell Leo to fly over if there is any change of plan. Otherwise the three of you carry on. I’ll see you when I see you. And watch the swing!’ He jumped down and stood on the running board of the engineer’s truck parked parallel with me.

  She started easily as though anxious to be off. Mechanically I went through the vital actions necessary before take-off and, with a final wave, slowly opened the throttle. Minus 3, minus 2, zero, plus 1. She shook and trembled with frustrated power, as I still held on the brakes. More throttle. More until she shook with rage. At plus 2 I felt the tail lighten... This is it! I released the brakes. With a jerk the Spitfire charged into exultant action. I slammed the throttle fully open to emergency power and kicked full right rudder as she began to swing. Come on. Come on! Out of the corner of my eye I saw the truck racing with me. 40... 50... 60. Still she clung to the topsoil, the long nose swaying and bobbing violently. I fought against the temptation to ease the control column forward. The truck had gone. Suddenly the lurching ceased... I was airborne, free. We soared violently into the sky.

  Shaking, I throttled back until the panic roar of the engine subsided to normal climb power and switched on the radio.

  ‘Hello, Gordon. Jackie here,’ I called.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he replied instantly, his voice metallically different, over the radio.

  ‘Fine,’ I answered.

  ‘I can’t see you. You blew up a dust storm.’

  I looked down. The aerodrome was covered with a long trail of dust that billowed high into the air. To the south I could see Bandar Abbas sandwiched between the Gulf and the desert.

  ‘How was the take-off?’

  ‘Not bad. I swung... couldn’t see a thing with the tail down.’

  ‘You are in the air. That’s all that matters. It’s clear now. Come down and do a beat-up,’ he said.

  ‘Roger,’ I replied and dived steeply at his white shirt.

  ‘Take it easy. You’ve got a belly-tank on you know.’

  ‘O.K.’

  ‘Push off. You haven’t got too much petrol.’

  ‘O.K. I’m on course for Sharja now.’

  ‘Good-bye.’

  ‘Good-bye,’ I answered. ‘Take care of yourself.’ There was a metallic click. He had switched off.

  I climbed to 7,000 feet before crossing the coast and heading out over the Gulf. I checked the instruments carefully as Bandar Abbas slipped past under my wing and kept myself unnecessarily busy with map-reading. I swallowed and kept swallowing the lump that had lodged in my throat. I loosened the strap of my helmet. It made it easier.

  Fifteen minutes later I called on the R/T: ‘Sharja Tower; Uncle Baker 437. Do you read?’

  They came back immediately. ‘Uncle Baker four three seven, Sharja Tower. Read you Loud and Clear. Hello, Jackie. Come on in; we’re waiting for you.’

  ‘Four three seven. Thank you. Are Captains Kastner and Banting there?’ I replied.

  ‘Sure thing, kid,’ answered Leo’s voice. ‘What’s your E.T.A.?’

  ‘About twenty minutes,’ I replied.

  ‘Hurry up. We’ve got a party laid on for you tonight.’

  I thought of Gordon returning to Bandar Abbas; to an empty, silent room, as I followed the Trucial Oman coastline until the white sands of Sharja appeared. Parked by the Control Tower and standing out sharply against the bleached sands were the other two Spitfires. I landed, taxied next to them and saw the familiar figures of Leo and Sonny running out to me. Hurriedly I put on my sunglasses and climbed out of the cockpit.

  ‘Hey, you look wonderful, kid,’ shouted Leo, grabbing me by the shoulders.

  Sonny smilingly agreed. ‘Bandar Abbas has agreed with you.’

  I forced a smile and left it at that.

  46

  I had always liked the remote appeal of Sharja perched on the shores of the Trucial Oman peninsula and dominated by mountains to the east, but I was in no mood now to enjoy its extravagant colour and exotic beauty as I joined the others in the tiny air-conditioned transient mess. I wore a ubiquitous nylon dress, after a salt-water bath, and knew that I looked my best. Not a particularly exciting phenomenon in Europe but adequate for woman-starved Sharja. Gallantries and compliments fell on me like spring showers. The ‘Doc’, scruffy and unorthodox; the C.O. newly arrived and shy; a locust-control officer sadly reminiscing over his predecessor murdered in nearby Dubai for a few paltry rupees; a bank clerk; a mildly supercilious army officer and a few incredibly youthful air force officers made up the party. I commented disparagingly on the Doc’s moustache. Two minutes later he returned, bloody but unbowed, with half of it shaved off. He raised his eyebrows enquiringly. ‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘Decidedly better.’ He vanished and returned clean shaven.

  ‘What’s happening about Gordon?’ I asked Leo during a lull in the dancing. He shrugged his shoulders and pulled out a batch of cables from his tunic. I read them quickly, anxiously.

  ‘Surely it should have been sorted out by now?’ I said peevishly.

 
He shrugged. ‘As far as I can make out from the cables they are flying a propeller to Kerman and then by road to Bandar Abbas.’

  ‘By road!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s 200 miles,’ I replied, appalled by the thought of driving over those impossible roads with a propeller.

  He nodded. ‘They expect to arrive in Bandar Abbas within a week.’

  ‘How are we going to let Gordon know?’

  ‘Well, how can we?’ riposted Leo.

  ‘We could fly over on our way to Karachi and drop a note.’

  Leo shook his head. ‘No. We haven’t enough fuel.’

  ‘We could refuel at Jiwani,’ I pointed out encouragingly.

  He smiled mockingly. ‘What are you so anxious about, kid?’

  ‘Leo,’ I protested, blushing with innocent guilt, ‘he’s marooned there alone. No one to talk to. No idea of what is happening. It won’t be so bad if he knows when he’s going to get out.’

  He shook his head firmly. ‘Sorry, Jackie. I don’t want to land at Jiwani, they haven’t got a battery cart. If we can’t start up on our own batteries, we’re stuck.’

  ‘Couldn’t just one...’ I argued weakly.

  ‘No. We stick together.’

  ‘Are we leaving in the morning?’

  ‘Yes. Dawn. Call at four o’clock. It’s time we went to bed.’

  There was a flattering chorus of protests as we left the party. I said good-night to Leo and Sonny, waited for them to retire and sneaked out of the gates of the fort to the Spitfires parked outside. It was a perfect night. The red hurricane lights marking out the parking area gleamed weakly in the liquid moonlight that caressed the aircraft and threw their elongated shadows on the sand. I touched the wing of my plane like a lover. It felt cool and clean; the leading edge as sharp as a knife, ready to thrust its way through to the glittering infinity above. Intoxicated with the night’s beauty I turned north to Bandar Abbas, then west to Taunton and wavered like a compass needle between them both before returning reluctantly to my stuffy bedroom.

  47

  The following morning we climbed away steeply to the east with the sun plunging blindly into our cockpits. After an hour I felt uncomfortable. After two I knew that I shouldn’t have had that second cup of tea at breakfast. After three I was desperate and opened up the throttle to maximum cruise and jumped into the lead.

  ‘Hey, Jackie!’ shouted Leo over the R/T. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I er... I’ve got to get to Karachi quickly...’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Leo anxiously. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’

  I kept eloquently silent. ‘O.K.,’ replied Leo, chuckling. ‘Go ahead, we’ll follow.’

  Intently I urged my Spitfire on as the Pakistan coastline crawled sluggishly by. At last Karachi aerodrome loomed up in the haze. I called the Control Tower over the R/T.

  ‘Karachi Tower. Uncle Baker 437. Three Spitfires approaching from the west. Request landing clearance.’

  ‘There are two aircraft ahead of you. Stand by,’ they answered.

  ‘I can’t stand by,’ I answered urgently. ‘I want to spend a penny.’

  There was a stunned silence over the R/T before an aircraft replied: ‘After you, madam.’

  ‘You are clear to land number one,’ ordered Karachi Tower dryly.

  I landed, taxied to the tarmac and had to sit, fuming, for three interminable minutes whilst the health authorities let off a D.D.T. bomb inside the cockpit. Officers standing on the Control Tower waved encouragingly as I ran past.

  After a brief lunch we took off again for Jodhpur, a relatively short flight of two hours across the barren featureless Thar desert that forms a natural barrier between Pakistan and India. It was an uneventful flight and we landed, parched but content, as the sun threw its longest shadows.

  After a prolonged battle of two hours with the Customs authorities who, still unable to understand that Spitfires were fighter aircraft incapable of carrying either freight or passengers, instituted a new form or a new procedure every time we landed there, we checked in at Circuit House, a small quiet hotel nestling in its own grounds on the outskirts of Jodhpur. After a disappointingly European dinner Leo, Sonny and I sat on the veranda overlooking the drive and listened to the unwavering croak of the frogs, the appealing tch-tch-tch of the chameleons and the bloodcurdling howl of the pariah dogs. We were all overtired and spoke desultorily. Leo cross-examined me fitfully about Bandar Abbas, before suggesting that we make it an early night.

  At dawn we drove in a jeep to the aerodrome. It was cold and we huddled up in our flying overalls as we passed laden ox-carts plodding steadily along the road, their drivers wrapped in coarse calico sacks and nodding in sleep. Slowly, as dawn lifted the pallor of night and splashed a thin daub of crimson in the eastern sky, brilliant peacocks strutted from the undergrowth, ruffled their feathers in a cascade of brilliance and preened conceitedly. In violent contrast ugly misshapen vultures hopped clumsily in search of carrion breakfast.

  We were late taking off. Unaccountably my booster pump had fused and I could not start. Leo fumed irritably over the R/T. ‘I can’t help it,’ I protested. ‘It’s not my fault if the fuse blows.’ I was sorely tempted to add to this but by now I had become reconciled to the others’ tendency to blame me for any hitch in our schedule. We climbed out, found a spare fuse, fitted and checked it and took off in a flurry of perspiring bad temper an hour later.

  We cruised at a higher throttle setting to make up for lost time and the indefatigable Merlin engines soon spanned the 400 miles to Cawnpore.

  Narrowly avoiding an invitation for a lethargic curry lunch at the officers’ mess we refuelled and took off again in the heat of noon for Calcutta, 600 miles to the east.

  The Meteorological officer had warned us of monsoon storms and severe turbulence along the route though, when we levelled out at 11,000 feet, the skies were crystal clear and pacific. Perhaps, I thought cynically, a little too clear and pacific.

  My cynicism was well justified, for within an hour I felt the first touch of turbulence that shook our formation in gentle warning like a nanny chastising a too adventurous child. Ahead, blocking our path, towered majestic cumulonimbus clouds in unmistakable challenge. Like gigantic cauliflowers they boiled and blustered into fantastic silhouettes. I tightened my straps and watched Leo warily as he veered left and right in search of an opening. I edged closer to him as though his nearness could help. He gave me a quick look, grinned encouragingly and pointed to his oxygen mask. I nodded, grinned feebly back and turned on my oxygen. We climbed as the storm blackened the sky and loomed closer. Climbed and struggled for height until, at 27,000 feet the Spitfires floundered and responded sluggishly in the rarefied air. But it was futile. The squall leered at us from Olympian heights; we were like salmon battling against Niagara Falls.

  ‘It’s no good,’ shouted Leo over the R/T. ‘We’ll have to go underneath.’

  We spiralled steeply, discarding thriftlessly the hard-won altitude, until we were a few feet from the ground, twisting and turning through the valleys that tossed us like shuttlecocks in an uproar of turbulence and hail. Dimly I could see Sonny, on the other side of Leo, rising and falling sickeningly in a violent series of gusts that threatened to tear loose his long-range belly-tank. The ground flashed by in a series of kaleidoscopic sketches; forests, rivers and the upturned faces of startled villagers. Suddenly, as though a door had closed, we were through and I felt sheepish, like a man who finds himself shouting in a sudden hush, as I still struggled unnecessarily violently with the controls in the magically smooth air.

  ‘O.K., Jackie?’ asked Leo as we climbed back to cruising level, blinking in the brilliant sun.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sonny?’

  ‘O.K.’

  ‘Now where the hell are we!’ added Leo.

  Being lost seemed a comparatively minor event after the turmoil of the storm and o
ur chatter over the R/T possessed the mild inanity of a drunken trio as we tried to identify the swollen rivers and flooded fields two miles beneath. After we had come to three violently conflicting conclusions Leo surrendered and called for a Q.D.M. from Calcutta. The course that Calcutta gave us to steer for the aerodrome proved all three of us to be conclusively wrong – not, under the circumstances, very surprising.

  Calcutta soon appeared on the horizon, looking fresh and clean like a small boy from the heavy showers. The Hooghli river, stained with soil, curled heavily through the city and pin-pointed Barrackpore aerodrome.

  We were met by Indian Air Force officers who quickly supervised the manhandling of our Spitfires into the hangar before the next storm broke over the aerodrome, drumming the corrugated tin roof of the hangars with a deafening deluge. Two cows munched placidly on the concrete apron, oblivious of the torrent that bounced off their backs in tiny angry waterspouts and dripped from the tails still mechanically flicking though no flies could survive that waterfall.

  ‘Only three this time?’ questioned the engineering officer. ‘Who’s missing?’

  ‘Levett,’ I answered. ‘We left him behind in Bandar Abbas. Have you heard anything?’ I added.

  ‘Not a word.’

  I unpacked miserably.

  48

  We stayed overnight in the officers’ mess and were received with that humble courtesy characteristic of the people of India. The accommodation was primitive, the beds mattressed with lump straw that smelled of damp stables and betokened the fakir’s bed of nails. I stripped and revelled in the cold shower, eyed curiously by a jet-black crow perched impudently on the window ledge. I tried to make friends but he flew away with a haughty flurry of wings. It was close and humid as I flopped wearily on the bed with a towel wrapped around me and dozed fitfully with the roar of the Merlin engine still echoing in my ears like sea-shells. Images of Bandar Abbas and Taunton rose before my eyes as I listened sleepily to the wur-wur-wur of the fan creaking uselessly on the ceiling.