New Heavens

by Boris Senior

  I circled the doomed ship in an airplane belonging to forces on the point of ordering me to bomb the ship and its Irgun volunteers, some of whom only some months before had been my blood brothers and comrades. Most fortunately, GHQ held back the order to bomb at the last minute. I returned to base and awaited another fateful order to bomb the ship. After some hours of tension, GHQ told me that it had finally decided not to bomb the ship. Believing a demonstration of strength by flying over the ship while flashing my navigation lights would be an effective warning to the men below, I was ordered to do so.

  During the confusion at Kfar Vitkin, Begin boarded the ship and remained on it until the end. The Altalena did not complete the unloading at Kfar Vitkin and was deliberately beached on the shore of Tel Aviv in full view of the city’s population, the UN observers, and the world media. The Altalena was fired upon and destroyed after a direct order from Ben Gurion. For months the rusting, blackened hulk on the lovely beachfront of Tel Aviv bore mute testimony to man’s folly.

  I was relieved when an order came for me to proceed to Czechoslovakia for a conversion course on the Messerschmitt 109. The order came while the Altalena was sailing from Kfar Vitkin to the Tel Aviv beach, and I was spared the necessity of being an unhappy star player in the confrontation between the government forces and the Irgun. I heard later that when the Mahal aircrews were told to load aircraft for a possible action against the Altalena there was a revolt against being involved in any action against Jews.

  The Altalena became the target of artillery, and Jews killed Jews on the burning ship or as they jumped into the sea. Sorely needed military equipment was destroyed in the fire, which gutted the ship. The pall of smoke from the Altalena was like a funeral pyre in front of where the Dan Hotel now stands in Tel Aviv. It put an end to the saddest chapter in Israel’s rebirth. During the confrontation nineteen people were killed, sixteen of them Irgun fighters.

  The Altalena affair left a deep and lasting schism between the two opposing factions in Israel. Being a secret member of the Irgun but serving in the air arm of the Haganah, I was in a better position than most at the time to make an impartial judgment. My opinion is that both the Irgun and Prime Minister Ben Gurion were unreasonably paranoid about the whole question leading to the dispute. Both Ben Gurion and Begin played their hands badly. Begin’s refusal to bow to government authority in Israel was unacceptable and had to be opposed. However, I feel that Ben Gurion’s misreading of Begin’s intentions was the main cause of the tragedy that followed in plain view of Israel’s population and the world media.

  My last meeting with Begin was years later in Jerusalem at a party to launch his book White Night. By this time I was an active supporter of the Peace Now Movement, which encouraged a policy of compromise with the Arabs in order to arrive at a peace settlement. During the reception someone told Begin. This news must have been both surprising and distasteful for him, but he took it with equanimity. He came up to me and said, “We are all free people who have their own choice.” He accompanied his statement with a big hug.

  Not long thereafter in May 1977, Begin won the elections and became prime minister of Israel, bringing into his government Ezer as minister of defense, Dayan as foreign minister, and Yadin as deputy prime minister, all having been generals during Ben Gurion’s reign. For me this closed the gap in my strange allegiance to the two opposing forces.

  THE MULE

  Following the purchase of twenty-five new Czech-built World War II German fighters, our pilots were sent to Czechoslovakia for training. After seven had completed the first course, I went with the second batch. When we arrived at the Czechoslovak base of Ceske Budejovice, I was encouraged to find my comrades. In the course were South African and American volunteers, a great follow-on to the few men recruited in Johannesburg earlier. Here, too, I met the American volunteer George Lichter, who has been my lifelong friend and fighter-pilot comrade both in Israel and since he returned to his home in New York.

  By the time we arrived in Prague, the communists had infiltrated every facet of the economy. We quickly learned that the Czech expression for the nationalized businesses was “Narodni Podnik.” The best nightclub in Prague where one could get fine steaks and desserts with whipped cream was “Monica,” and it also belonged to the communist administration The hotels had all the appurtenances of a Western capitalist establishment, which jarred with one’s image of communism. However, that was no concern of ours and, as long as the Czechs were willing to lend support to our budding air force, we accepted the anomalies in their system happily.

  I took with me twenty U.S. dollars, which I changed on the free market at 400 crowns per dollar. The official rate was fifty. The small sum I had brought in dollars, once converted at the free market rate, supplied me with all my requirements—two recorded symphonies, a set of Bohemian glassware, and a number of books about Russia, which were freely and cheaply available in the shops compliments of the Soviet propaganda machine.

  eské Budjovice was a Czech Air Force training base in eastern Czechoslovakia, and we were outfitted with flying overalls, helmets, and gloves. The irony of the situation was not lost on me, for here we were, Jewish pilots in the Israel Air Force, training on German Messerschmitt 109s, wearing Nazi Luftwaffe flying suits. To top it all, we were flying behind the Iron Curtain. A greater irony was that several of us had flown Spitfires in combat against Nazi Messer-schmitts in World War II and were now about to fly Mes-serschmitts in missions against Spitfires of the Egyptian Air Force.

  Our accommodations at the air base were basic but adequate. Tins of food from the Israeli embassy in Prague supplemented the meager Czech military rations. The camp food consisted mainly of suet dumplings with a meat sauce and was not the kind of fare we were used to after an Israeli diet lavishly supplemented with fresh vegetables and salads.

  In addition to the food in the mess, we were given Czech ration coupons. Though we did not encounter the shortages endemic in an economy based on central government control, the dissatisfaction of most of the population with the regime after the communist putsch was evident on all sides and was probably the main reason for the warmth we encountered from the Czech people. Mainly because of the language barriers, we had little contact with the Czechs apart from our flying instructors. The chief instructor at eské Budjovice was Captain Bilek, a man of somewhat surly demeanor. The instructors were always correct and businesslike in their attitude to us and would never discuss politics.

  We began our training in the German Arado trainer to become familiar with the airfield, followed by a short spell in a two-seater Messerschmitt with Captain Bilek. Having served in the Czech branch of the Royal Air Force in England during World War II, he spoke English fairly well. We avoided straying into Austrian air space as the border was close to the base. That would have been a catastrophe, for the Americans occupying Austria at that time would have learned of our presence and what we were doing in eské Budjovice. In the political climate of the Cold War, it might well have put an end to the whole Czechoslovakian program.

  My first flight in the Czech-built Messerschmitt 109 was not encouraging. It was rightly called the Mule, for taking off and landing in one piece was an achievement. It had an unpleasant built-in swing during these phases, and ten of the twenty-six that were brought to Israel were written off either on landing or takeoff, despite being piloted by experienced World War II fighter pilots. I was among the few who did not damage a Messerschmitt. The reason for the swing was the narrow undercarriage and the heavy torque from the Junkers Jumo engine with its outsized paddle-bladed propeller. The original German-built Messerschmitts handled better with the more-powerful Daimler Benz engine and a normal prop.

  The Messerschmitt was a poor substitute for the Spitfire, which some of us knew firsthand, but all knew it was a formidable fighting machine with its two 20mm cannon and two 12.7mm machine guns, and was our first real fighter. The Egyptians were terrified of it, probably attributing our constant victories to the
aircraft, whereas, in fact, our success came from our World War II experience.

  The absence of any armor protection behind the pilot’s seat, common in all fighter planes from the West, created an impression of lack of care for the pilot. The seat was low in a semi-reclining position, and it was alarming when the leading-edge flaps sprung out in steep turns. Another unnerving feature of the Czech fighters was that, although there were two 20mm cannon in the wings, there were two machine guns, which fired through the propeller. In theory, that was fine, but when the synchronization failed, as happened more than once in the squadron, you shot off your own propeller. Apart from these unpleasant characteristics, the aircraft had a fair performance, and during dogfights with Egyptian Spitfires, we always came out on top. Despite the Mule’s problems, I was happy to be facing the enemy at last in a real fighter aircraft.

  After the course we flew back to Israel in one of the airlift cargo planes via Ajaccio in Corsica again, with pleasant memories of Czechoslovakia and the warmth of its people’s attitude toward us at that critical time when no other country was willing to extend us a hand of friendship. I am not the only one with fond memories of that small, formerly communist country in central Europe. It should be remembered by the Jews of the world that both Russian permission for the Czechs to assist us as well as Russian diplomatic and political support in the United Nations during that period were instrumental in helping Israel to survive.

  ISRAELI SPITFIRE

  Before coming to agreement with the Czech government to purchase Messerschmitts, we explored every possibility of acquiring fighter planes that could oppose the Egyptian Air Force. We tried buying fighters from all over the world without success. But when the British forces left Palestine after the end of the Mandate, they left scrap heaps of discarded and damaged aircraft. Some of our technical personnel were familiar with the Spitfire from their RAF service during World War II. After the fighting began and the first Egyptian Spitfires were shot down, work was begun in earnest on building a Spitfire from scrap. A set of wings and a fuselage belonging to different marks of Spitfire were found. The wings were from a photo-reconnaissance Spit, and the fuselage from a Mark IX. The leading spirits behind the rebuilding of the Spitfire were two ex-RAF mechanics I knew. When the aircraft was finally ready for a test flight, no pilot in 101 Squadron had sufficient confidence in the mechanics who built it to test-fly it. Though I was in headquarters at the time, I jumped at the chance to test-fly our first Spitfire and offered to make the test flight. The pilots of 101 Squadron stood near the runway at Herzlia as I prepared to take off.

  I did not mention to anyone that I had never flown a Spitfire IX, having only done a conversion course on Spitfire VBs in 1944 in Egypt. I had not flown a World War II fighter for nearly three years. When I climbed into the cockpit and strapped myself in, I did have twinges of anxiety, but the mechanics had done an outstanding job in rebuilding without manuals or technical literature about Spitfires.

  The takeoff was typical of the Spitfire, as I remembered it from my time in Egypt. I was off the ground swiftly, and it was great to fly a Spitfire again. She behaved perfectly and I flew her to Kibbutz Ma’abarot near Natanya. The field was not operational and was unknown even to most of the air force pilots. We had decided to keep secret the existence of an Israeli Spitfire and hid her there among trees. The rousing cheers of the ground staff lining the sides of the runway when I landed made me feel good, and I was happy to fly the first Spitfire with Israel Air Force markings.

  I subsequently heard that there was a state of dejection among the fighter pilots in 101 Squadron for they had seen me take off in the Spit after a short run of barely 300 meters, whereas the Messerschmitts needed most of the 800-meter runway to get airborne.

  This lone Spit—number 10 was the number given to it by the Israel Air Force—was to be a secret weapon for a while. It enabled me to carry out photo-reconnaissance missions deep behind the Egyptian lines with confidence, for the enemy did not know our secret and, therefore, were unlikely to attack a lone Spit far behind their lines. It provided a safe camera platform for us for many months.

  The first mission for the Spit was escort to a light photo-reconnaissance aircraft. A plan had been hatched at general headquarters to introduce an armored division through the extreme south of the country from the Red Sea. For this purpose, it was essential to photograph the present situation of all the oases in the Arava Valley, which stretched from what is now Eilat up to the Dead Sea. As mentioned earlier I had done the one long flight down as far as the Red Sea some months before, but as matters began to heat up and our procurement possibilities improved, the question of a landing from the extreme south became more feasible. We decided to reconnoiter all the oases in the deep south.

  At this time, volunteer aircrews were arriving on every Universal Airlines flight from Johannesburg. One of these was Monty Goldberg, a member of a family with whom I had been friendly since my early youth. He had been an experienced aerial photographer in the South African Air Force. When I got the order to organize the reconnaissance and photographing of all the oases between Sdom on the Dead Sea and Aqaba on the Red Sea, I chose Monty. The only aircraft suitable for the purpose was the high-wing Fairchild, ideal for photography but a sitting duck for any fighter.

  I chose a pilot named Paltiel Makleff to fly Monty down into the Negev desert. As the Fairchild was unarmed and flying into enemy territory, I planned to escort them in the Spitfire. I flew the Spit to the base at Tel Nof to join Monty and Paltiel. Before takeoff, Paltiel complained of a magneto drop in the Fairchild engine. By that time I had had a number of cases of pilots complaining of mag drops before takeoff on a mission, usually by pilots with nerves at breaking point. I replied, “Mag drop or no mag drop, you take off.”

  Because of the impossibility of giving close escort with the Spitfire’s much higher flying speed, I waited at the beginning of the runway for about twenty minutes after the Fairchild’s takeoff, the time I needed to meet it and circle above when it entered enemy territory.

  My engine overheated, not an uncommon occurrence in Spitfires in the hot climate of the Middle East, and I was late in departing. By the time I reached our rendevous point, Monty and Paltiel were nowhere to be seen, and I was forced to return to base when my fuel ran low. Eventually, a message arrived reporting they had completed part of their mission, but about sixty kilometers from the base at Tel Nof, they had force-landed in Arab territory with engine trouble and were now prisoners of war.

  So the magneto drop was real. Here was another case of my sending a close friend out on a mission from which he did not return. In this case they both survived. I met Monty many years later in Johannesburg, and though I was a little apprehensive, he was overjoyed to see me again and bore no grudge. Monty and Paltiel were fortunate to have survived, for when they landed, it was in territory under the control of Arab irregulars, who took off their shoes and whipped them into a mad run. Fortunately, an Egyptian army officer appeared, took charge, and moved them to a prisoner-of-war camp in Egypt, where they were treated reasonably. They were in the prison camp until the end of the war in early 1949 and then returned to Israel.

  In the last days of December 1948, when our Seventh Brigade crossed the Egyptian-Israeli border in the far south on its way to the main Egyptian forward air base at El Arish, they found another Spitfire in one of the revetments at the nearby El Arish satellite airfield. I had bombed the field a few times and noted that there were aircraft in revetments and parked around the field under camouflage netting.

  I drove in a jeep to the satellite field, on the way passing near Kurnub, the only location in that very dry part of the world that sported a large and deep pool of water. It is now the site of the town of Dimona. At the satellite field, I was surprised to see what appeared to be eight Spitfires under camouflage netting. With only one exception, however, they were dummies. We had been deceived into bombing the field when it contained mainly dummy aircraft.

  I climb
ed into the only real Spitfire, switched on the ignition, and was surprised to see the ignition light shining. I tried a number of times to get it started, but couldn’t. I had to leave it with the ground troops evacuating the area hurriedly because of returning Egyptian forces. In fact, while I was trying to start the Spitfire, I heard shelling nearby, proving the situation was still fluid. There was little that could be done, but I refused to leave the precious Spit there. The army had a spare command car available, and we hooked the tail wheel of the airplane over the back of the vehicle and began to tow it to our lines. After an hour or two of towing, there was nothing more I could do to help and I hitched a ride back to Tel Aviv. Near Beersheba, a vehicle coming the other way knocked off the wing. Fortunately, it was not a total loss, for it was repaired and entered service eventually with 101 Squadron.

  After capturing the main airfield of El Arish, we found the Egyptians had already evacuated most of their aircraft before our ground troops reached it and had torched all the unserviceable aircraft that could not be evacuated. In the canal zone, RAF bases refueled Egyptian Air Force planes, which were landing at their fields on their way back to Egypt during the period when they were in full retreat. So much for British neutrality during our war of survival with the Arab states in 1948.

  VELVETA

  British Spitfire fighters were inherited by the Czech squadrons that served with the RAF in World War II and were taken to Czechoslovakia after the war. After the communist takeover in 1948, the Czechs had to alter the anomalous situation of having an air force equipped with British fighters. Israel was still desperately short of fighter aircraft, having less than a dozen Messerschmitts left of the original twenty-six. We decided to buy forty Spitfires, which the Czechs undertook to prepare for the long flight to Israel.