Grandpa's Great Escape

by David Walliams

  Finally, Raj pulled back the throttle hard on his motorbike and rattled off down the road.

  So after escaping from one heavily fortified building, Jack and his grandfather now had to break into another. Being full of priceless historical artefacts, the museum had excellent security. A quick sweep around the outside of the building only confirmed what Jack had suspected. All the windows and doors were locked. Last time Grandpa had walked right in because the museum had been open to the public. This time it was not going to be so easy.

  By the time the pair came back to the front, they had all but given up hope.

  “Some clown has locked up the aircraft hangar!” muttered Grandpa.

  Jack looked up at the building. High above the Roman-style columns of the museum front squatted a large green dome. Dotted along the base of it there were a number of small, round windows; they looked like the portholes of a ship. One at the front appeared slightly ajar. Perhaps it could be prised open. But how were they going to get up there?

  As Jack pondered this, he leaned on one of the two huge naval cannon that pointed proudly aloft in the courtyard. The boy had an idea.

  “Wing Commander?”

  “Yes, old boy?”

  “If the cannon could be turned around to point the other way, then we could climb along them to reach that open window up there.”

  The cannon sat on a large metal base. Together the pair tried to push on it, but it just wouldn’t turn.

  But feeling underneath, Jack found a number of large screws. “I still have the serving spoon, sir!” proclaimed the boy. It was the one he had swiped from the school cafeteria that he hadn’t got the chance to give to Grandpa earlier that night.

  “We can use it as a screwdriver!” said Grandpa.

  Using the handle of the spoon, the old man loosened the screws in no time.

  With all their strength, the pair then put their shoulders against the base and pushed as hard as they could.

  It was tough work, but at last the cannon were pointing up at the museum.

  Jack climbed up on to one, while his grandfather heaved himself on to the other. Both held out their arms for balance as they edged their way along. After a few steps, Jack realised it was best not to look down; it was quite a drop.

  Eventually Jack and his grandfather reached the roof of the museum. On seeing the Union Jack flying there, Grandpa saluted it, and the boy felt compelled to follow suit.

  Pigeon poop covered the roof and it was very slippery, especially if you happened to be wearing slippers.

  “This one, sir!” said the boy, indicating the little round window that had been left open ever so slightly. Jack just managed to force his small fingers into the gap, and pulled the window fully open.

  “Good work, Squadron Leader!” said Grandpa.

  The old man gave the boy a leg up. Jack then reached down his hand to help his grandfather inside.

  The pair had broken into the Imperial War Museum.

  The feeling landed on Jack like an enormous YES!

  Now all they had to do was steal the Spitfire.

  55

  Driving a Tank

  Jack and his grandfather raced down the staircase and into the Great Room of the museum where the aircraft were suspended from the ceiling.

  The fighter planes had been repaired since the pair’s last visit. The Spitfire had been restored to her former glory.

  On the wall was a winch, and the two worked double quick to bring the warbird back down to earth.

  In a nearby glass cabinet stood a display of RAF pilots’ flying gear on mannequins. Thinking fast, they pushed an old World War I cavalry cannon, that in its day would have been drawn by a horse, towards the cabinet. The cannon smashed the glass.

  As if they had been scrambled, the pair raced to put on the flying gear.

  The boy checked his reflection in the next glass case along –

  Goggles – CHECK

  Helmet – CHECK

  Flying suit – CHECK

  Scarf – CHECK

  Brown leather jacket – CHECK

  Boots – CHECK

  Gloves – CHECK

  Parachute – CHECK

  They had their flying suits on.

  The Spitfire was on the ground.

  But amidst all the excitement, the pair had forgotten something.

  Something big.

  “Wing Commander?” said the boy.

  “Yes, Squadron Leader?”

  “How are we going to get the plane out of here?”

  The old man glanced all around, a look of puzzlement on his face. “Whichever clown designed this aircraft hangar forgot to put the doors in!”

  Suddenly it was as if a balloon had been deflated inside Jack. Getting into the museum had been hard enough, but getting the Spitfire out seemed impossible.

  On the other side of the hall, a World War I tank was on display. It was a British Mark V, military green with two huge caterpillar tracks. It was so big and heavy, it looked like it could smash through concrete.

  Suddenly Jack had an idea. “Do you know how to drive a tank, sir?” asked the boy.

  “No! But how hard can it be?” Grandpa was a man who could take everything in his stride.

  The pair hurried over to the tank, clambered up and opened the hatch at the top. Plunging down into the cramped cockpit, they were greeted by the most unfamiliar array of pedals and levers.

  “Let’s just try a few of these, shall we?” announced Grandpa.

  After starting the engine the old man pulled down on a lever, which immediately threw the tank into reverse.

  “Make it stop!” shouted Jack.

  It was too late. The Imperial War Museum’s gift shop had been destroyed.

  Now in something of a panic, the boy pulled the nearest handle and the ancient tank surged forward at terrific speed.

  It demolished the wall of the museum with laughable ease.

  Getting the hang of the Mark V now, the pair drove the tank backwards and forwards a few times to make sure the hole was big enough for the Spitfire’s wings to fit through.

  Then they scrambled out of the tank and rushed back over to the Spitfire. They leaped up on to the wing and climbed into the cockpit. As with most World War II fighter planes there was just one seat, so the boy sat on his grandfather’s lap.

  “Cosy in here, isn’t it, Squadron Leader?” remarked the old man.

  For the first time in his life Jack was sitting in a real Spitfire. His dream was coming true.

  After all those years of playing pilots with his grandfather, the inside of the plane was exactly as the old man had described.

  There was an instrument panel with dials for speed and altitude.

  Below that was a compass.

  The gun sights were of course at head height.

  Between the boy’s knees was the control column. At the top of the stick was the most thrilling part —a button to fire the machine guns.

  Grandpa went through his checks.

  “Canopy secure? Check!

  Propeller set to low? Check!

  Battery on? Check!

  Flaps up and trimmed?

  Navigation equipment?

  Flight instruments? Check!

  Fuel? Fuel? Empty!”

  Jack’s eyes turned to the fuel gauge. It was indeed empty. Here they were, all dressed up with nowhere to go.

  “You stay here, Squadron Leader,” said Grandpa.

  “What are you going to do?” asked the boy.

  “One of us is going to have to get out and push!”

  56

  Fill Her Up!

  The boy sat in the pilot’s seat steering, as Grandpa used all his might to push the fighter plane out of the museum and along the road. Luckily most of it was downhill.

  The pair were in search of a petrol station, as they needed to fill the plane up with fuel if they were going to take to the air.

  Fortunately they soon found one, a little way down the road from the m
useum.

  The lady behind the counter stared, mouth open with shock, as the World War II fighter plane was wheeled on to the forecourt.

  From the cockpit Jack shouted down, “Are you sure normal car petrol will be all right for the Spitfire, Wing Commander?”

  “She’s not going to like it, Squadron Leader!” said Grandpa. “The old girl’s going to cough and splutter a bit. But she will still go.”

  Needless to say, an aeroplane needs a great deal more fuel than a car.

  The boy watched anxiously as the price on the pump went past one hundred pounds to two hundred, then three, then four.

  “Have you got any money with you, sir?” enquired Jack.

  “No. Have you?”

  Eventually the old man could feel that the fuel tank was full, just as the price reached £999. So he thought he might as well round it up to £1000. But Grandpa pushed too hard on the pump and the price clicked up to £1000.01.

  “Darn it!” shouted the old man.

  “How are we going to pay?”

  “I’ll just tell the lady that we are on official RAF business. As there is a war on, we have commandeered the fuel.”

  “Good luck with that, sir!”

  The old man didn’t understand the sarcasm and marched over to the payment hatch.

  At that moment, a little yellow car pulled up at the next pump. From the cockpit, Jack saw that sat in the driving seat was the huge, hairy security guard from the Imperial War Museum. The man was in his uniform, presumably on his way to work.

  “Grandpa! I mean, Wing Commander!” the boy shouted.

  “Excuse me, madam,” said the old man, before turning to his grandson, eyebrows raised. “What is it now, Squadron Leader?”

  “I think you better get back in the plane! Quick!”

  The security guard had climbed out of his car, ready to confront the boy.

  “Oi! You!”

  “Just had word on the radio, sir!” cried the boy in desperation. “We must take off at once!”

  Grandpa started running towards the plane shouting instructions. “Righty ho, then! Start her up!”

  From all those simulations in his grandfather’s flat, Jack knew exactly where the right button was. He pressed it and the forty-year-old warbird shuddered back into life.

  “What on earth do you two think you are doing now?” shouted the security guard over the roar of the engine.

  “Start taxiing!” called out Grandpa, as he ran across the forecourt.

  “LADY! CALL THE POLICE!” bellowed the guard.

  As the Spitfire started taxiing out of the garage, Grandpa ran after it and leaped on to the wing.

  The rather hefty security guard initially gave chase on foot, but soon got a stitch and limped back to his car to give chase.

  The Spitfire was now taxiing at some speed down the road, as Grandpa shuffled his way along the wing to the cockpit.

  Jack had just completed his Highway Code badge on his trike, and when he saw a traffic light turn red ahead, he slammed on the brakes.

  The little yellow car pulled up beside them, and the security guard started shouting angrily at the pair. Jack wasn’t sure what to do, so just smiled and waved.

  “What are you stopping for, old boy?” shouted Grandpa. “GO GO GO!”

  The old man managed to clamber into the cockpit. As he slid the canopy over their heads, he strapped in, took the controls and the fighter plane roared off.

  The Spitfire made her way along the main road on the south side of the River Thames.

  There were cars hurtling down the road towards them. As if this was a deadly game of dare, Grandpa managed to swerve the plane out of the way of the oncoming vehicles just in time, over and over.

  Above the din of the engine, Jack could hear sirens. A way off at first, but getting nearer and nearer.

  Nee naw

  Nee naw.

  The boy looked over his shoulder to see that there was a fleet of police cars in hot pursuit.

  “She needs a long stretch of open road to take off!” said Grandpa. But this being Central London, there wasn’t one.

  Jack looked to his right. More roads. Then he looked to his left and saw Waterloo Bridge come into view.

  “Take a left, Wing Commander!”

  “Roger!”

  The plane spun left and was soon powering its way across the bridge, as if it was a runway.

  As they sped along, Jack saw a number of police cars approaching from the far end of the bridge, trying to head them off.

  “Look, sir!”

  Grandpa increased his speed as the police cars started creating a makeshift roadblock. If the Spitfire didn’t take to the air any second now, it was going to SMASH SLAP BANG into them…

  57

  ZOOM!

  WHOOSH!

  A huge sense of relief washed over the boy as he realised that he and his grandfather were now airborne.

  “Up, up and away!” said the old man.

  “Up, up and away!” repeated Jack.

  The back wheels on the Spitfire’s undercarriage just clipped the roof of one of the police cars in the roadblock, causing the plane to wobble a little. But they were clear.

  Now they were heading straight towards the historic Savoy Hotel. But Grandpa pulled the control column back and the plane shot up high in the sky. The old man couldn’t help but show off to the policemen on the ground and performed a victory roll in the plane.

  This was much like a killer whale leaping above the waves just to prove its absolute superiority over every other living thing.

  The Spitfire was like that. She was the greatest warplane ever built. And behind the controls was one of the RAF’s greatest ever pilots.

  In Grandpa’s hands, the old plane handled like a brand-new racing car. She could turn on a sixpence; Grandpa flew so close to St Paul’s Cathedral his grandson’s heart nearly missed a beat. Then the fighter plane powered along the River Thames past HMS Belfast, straight towards Tower Bridge. Just as the two sides of the bridge were opening, Grandpa accelerated the Spitfire, and she zoomed straight through.

  For the first time in his short life, Jack felt truly alive. Free.

  “She is all yours, Squadron Leader,” said Grandpa.

  The boy couldn’t believe his ears. His grandfather was giving him control of the fighter plane.

  “If you are sure, Wing Commander?”

  “Roger!”

  With that, the old man took his hands away from the control column and the boy held it tight. Just as his grandfather had taught him, he only needed to make the tiniest of movements for the plane to respond.

  Jack wanted to touch the sky. He pulled the control column back and the plane raced up, up and up. They sped through some clouds and there was the sun. A ball of blazing fire lighting up the sky.

  Above the clouds they were alone at last. London was far below them, above them only space.

  “I want to do a loop-the-loop, sir!”

  “Roger!”

  Then the boy pulled the lever sharply towards him and the plane arced in the sky. Now they were upside down! Nothing else mattered aside from this moment. All of the past and all of the future meant nothing next to this.

  Keeping his hands on the control column, the plane was soon the right way up again. Had that been seconds? Minutes?

  Nothing mattered. Nothing else mattered. Nothing that had ever happened before mattered. Nothing that was ever going to happen mattered. All there was, was NOW.

  The boy took in every single thing. The force pinning him to the seat. The sound of the engine. The smell of the petrol.

  The Spitfire levelled out and skimmed the clouds, heading straight for the sun.

  Then out of the blinding red light ahead of them, they could see two mysterious black dots emerging. The light was so blinding, it was impossible at first to see what these dots were. But they were travelling at speed towards them.

  58

  Never Surrender

  As the d
ots drew closer, the boy recognised two Harrier Jump Jets. These were modern jet-powered fighter planes, and they whooshed past the Spitfire at incredible speed.

  Jack was scared – what had these fighter planes been sent up to do? Shoot them down? The pair of Harriers flew so close it felt like a warning of some sort. Behind him, he could see the two planes turning back around. In seconds they caught up with them, and flew alongside the Spitfire. One plane on either side, so close that the Harriers’ wings were very nearly touching theirs. The Jump Jet pilots wore black visors on their helmets so you couldn’t see their eyes, and their mouths were covered by masks. They looked more like robots than people.

  “Jerry’s got a brand spanking new plane!” said Grandpa.

  Jack looked to his left, then right.

  The pilots on either side were gesturing for them to descend.

  “Sir, they are telling us to land,” shouted the boy.

  “What did Churchill say, Squadron Leader?”

  Jack knew from his history lessons that the World War II Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, had said a great many memorable things. Right now he wasn’t sure which one in particular his grandfather meant.

  “Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few?”

  “No.”

  “We shall fight on the beaches?”

  “No.”

  Jack was wracking his brain. “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat?”

  “No. Not that one,” replied Grandpa, getting increasingly confused. “Our great Prime Minister said something about not giving up. I can’t recall exactly what he said but I am darn well sure he said we were never to do it!”

  “We shall never surrender?” ventured the boy.

  “That’s the one! And I never will…”

  The boy gulped in fear.

  59

  Pure Poetry

  The old man pulled back on the control lever and the Spitfire shot up like a rocket. The two Harrier Jump Jet pilots were caught off guard for a moment, before giving chase. The Spitfire’s wooden propeller should have been no match for a modern jet engine. But in Grandpa’s hands this ancient plane could outmanoeuvre the Harrier. Yes, the old girl rattled, and she coughed and spluttered at times. Yet in flight, the Spitfire was pure poetry.