Under the Radar

by James Hamilton-Paterson

  ‘What a way to spend the day,’ was his co-pilot’s greeting. ‘What the fuck was it? Did we hit a shitehawk?’

  ‘Who knows? Whatever caused it, I’d guess number four shed some turbine blades and then probably the whole disc. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened to a Vulcan. But they’ll have a job getting much information out of that –’ Amos waved a gloved hand towards the fire. It was burning smaller now and cleaner, the smoke a lighter shade. ‘I watched her go in. There won’t be a lot left. Good – here come the others. Two of them, anyway.’

  Bob and Gavin came up, also trailing roughly bundled parachute silk. Amos’s eyes met Gavin’s and spoke silent volumes, but what he said was, ‘Has anyone seen Vic?’

  ‘No, he was first out, though, so he’s probably on the far side of that,’ Bob indicated the bonfire. ‘He’ll be along. So what about Oilcan and Vector and the NBS film?’ The aircraft’s highly secret navigation and bombing system was a top security concern in the event of a crash. ‘I know the Yanks are our allies but our instructions were pretty clear.’

  ‘We’ll just have to hope nothing identifiable’s left of either. But I’m also hoping Terry thought to get in touch with Idris and they can send some chaps over. They won’t be experts but they can at least stand guard until the Air Ministry sends a team down. Meanwhile, no mention of any special equipment.’

  ‘Right. I believe our taxi’s here. Can’t think why they took so long.’

  ‘What did I say yesterday? It’s bloody Whirlybirds after all. The irony of it.’

  The ‘Flying Banana’ had landed fifty metres away and the four walked to it through the ochre dust its sagging, still-twirling rotors were stirring up. Two American airmen greeted them and helped them into the machine’s capacious interior.

  ‘You OK, you guys?’ one asked.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ Amos looked around anxiously. ‘Have you seen my nav radar anywhere?’

  A major who must have been in the cockpit came round to the door. ‘You the captain?’ he asked Amos. ‘Glad you four got out OK, but I’m afraid you need to brace yourselves for some real shitty news. Your buddy didn’t make it. Your other guys were watching from above and saw what happened. Maybe he’d broken an arm and couldn’t steer his chute. He drifted straight into the fireball.’

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ muttered Gavin.

  ‘Yeah, it happens. We lost a Thud driver the other day. Same thing. Whammo, out safely and then straight into the fire. But there’s worse to come. You won’t know this, and nobody’s blaming you, but you lot downed our Buff.’

  ‘What? We were nowhere near it,’ said Amos.

  ‘I know, but your bombs were when you jettisoned. They fell right on top. Broke it up like a pretzel. That’s what that dust cloud was out yonder –’ the officer stretched an arm towards the desert beyond the smouldering remains of Yogi 1. ‘No survivors.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Score: five of our guys, one of yours, plus two large aircraft. It’s been a goddamned expensive exercise, this, and nobody’s fault. We’ll get you back to base now.’

  For the short flight to Wheelus the remaining members of Yogi 1’s crew were silent, each busy with his own thoughts and not meeting the others’ eyes. Not that conversation would ever have been easy, given the deafening clatter inside the machine. But the expression on the face of the major sitting against the bulkhead in a webbing seat told Amos he knew exactly how they would be feeling. Enjoyment converted to tragedy in the twinkling of an eye. The horror of the unintended consequences of what they had done in order to survive, the guilt of having survived, the shock of a friend’s death mixed with fervent private prayers that Vic was already unconscious or, better, dead before he drifted helplessly into the holocaust on the desert floor. Familiar enough emotions to airmen on active service anywhere.

  *

  Later, none of the Britons could fault the courtesy and kindness extended to them on behalf of the USAF by the base commander, Colonel John Pierce. Tall for a man who had squeezed himself into F-86 cockpits to fly combat missions over the Yalu River in Korea, with a sandy crew cut and freckled forearms, he was there in immaculate sun-tans to greet Yogi 1’s crew when they landed at Wheelus. They stepped out into the familiar scenery of an active airbase, to the whine of jet engines, the shimmering thermals and smell of burning kerosene. The colonel introduced himself, shook them all gravely by the hand and hustled them into a van which drove off in the direction of the obviously residential side of the base. Soon Amos and the others found themselves sitting somewhat incongruously in their dust-stained flying kit in a bungalow with palm trees in its front garden, the house being set in a concrete-paved street looking for all the world like an averagely prosperous Californian suburb. Gavin noted the blue Ford Fairlane parked in the next-door drive. A basketball hoop set over the garage door clearly marked the houses out as married quarters.

  When a white-jacketed Filipino had served them cans of freezing beer, Colonel Pierce said: ‘Gentlemen, ‘I’m sorry to have to welcome you to Wheelus in such circumstances. My sincere condolences to you all on the loss of your crewman – Flight Lieutenant Ferrit, I think? – in the dreadful accident this afternoon. My apologies for spiriting you away to this house with what looks like unseemly haste, but I considered it better for everyone if you’re away from curious stares. It goes without saying that absolutely no blame attaches to you for what happened at Al Watia. You had an emergency and were not to know our bomber was below you. We’re all aviators. We all know what the deal is. As you’ll guess, on a base as active as Wheelus we’re none of us strangers to these things. I can guarantee no-one here will be anything but sympathetic.’

  The colonel went on to inform them that he had already spoken to RAF Luqa and arrangements had been made for Squadron Leader McKenna to do the same just as soon as he wished. The bodies of the five USAF men would arrive shortly. A search would be made for that of Flight Lieutenant Ferrit once the wreckage had cooled sufficiently, although this might not be until first light tomorrow. He understood a small team from RAF Idris would also be flying in to help with the search. Since tomorrow was Sunday, Colonel Pierce said, ‘it would be deemed a graceful act’ if all four Britons attended a short service in the base’s chapel. ‘Not a funeral, of course, just a public acknowledgement that we airmen know our lives often hang by a thread, the other end of which is held by Almighty God.’

  Fall out Roman Catholics and Jews! Amos heard an irrepressible inner voice add in memory of his Cranwell days.

  ‘On a lighter note, you gentlemen have sure given us much to think about. Yesterday’s exercise definitely revealed an imbalance in our respective radar capabilities’ (one way of putting it, Gavin thought to himself, exchanging a swift covert glance with Amos) ‘and today’s bomb comp, cut short as it tragically was, already looks as though it will yield highly valuable data. You gave a first-rate account of yourselves. Strictly from the military point of view, then, Praying Mantis has been a success. I believe it will be seen as having been of crucial value in our joint fight against godless communism, and we can be consoled that our comrades we mourn today gave their lives in the most urgent challenge our free world faces.’

  It was good, appropriate stuff, and Pierce did it well. Once in private, though, each of Yogi 1’s crew was surprised at how quickly he felt like shedding the subdued mode. He had survived. Once again it had been some other poor sod’s number up. That it had been old Vic’s turn merely strengthened his own claim to be genuinely invulnerable. Before long, something lighter began stealthily to break through the sombre mood, although the generous supply of Pabst and Schlitz may have helped.

  In the event they spent another thirty-six hours at Wheelus while the inevitable formalities were completed. Each crewman gave a statement that later would be used for the board of inquiry. At midday on Monday an RAF Transport Command Devon arrived to ferry them back to Luqa, where they each gave further statements, including ones relating to Baldy Hodge’s death. It was two more
days before they could hitch a lift back to the UK. During that time an RAF team combed through the wreckage of Yogi 1 in the desert, but no trace of Vic Ferrit remained beyond some distorted buckles from a parachute harness. Investigators examining the engines gave as their preliminary opinion that a bird strike was the most likely cause of the disaster. ‘One mangy fucking bird causing all that death and destruction’ was a thought common to everyone on board the Hastings as it droned them slowly and vibratingly back to Wearsby. It felt an ignominious way for a Vulcan crew to come home.

  2012

  24

  Amos had spent most of the previous day driving up from the West Country. He had long ago ruefully acknowledged that his former taste for speed was much diminished; he supposed this was yet another thing he could put down to age. But a night in the B&B somewhere near Lincoln restored his spirits even before he spotted Ken and Annie Pilcher in the breakfast room that morning.

  ‘Hullo, Pins,’ Annie greeted him as he went over to their table. Though smiling, she was giving him what he recognised as one of her professional medical looks. ‘Are you OK? We were betting you might chicken out at the last moment.’

  ‘Couldn’t afford to. I went ahead and booked this place the moment you sent me the bumf about the reunion. It was a way of ensuring I wouldn’t back down. I refuse to be stung for a cancellation fee. What about you?’

  ‘I wish we’d done that,’ Ken said. ‘For a while yesterday I thought we’d have to pitch a tent to rest our old bones in. Everything’s booked solid for twenty miles around. Everett tells me there are just over two hundred coming.’ Unlike Amos he was wearing the old 319 Squadron tie as well as a dark blue blazer with silver buttons and a gold-worked RAF badge on its breast pocket. ‘A miracle there are that many of us left above ground, if you ask me.’

  ‘We’re tough buggers to kill, Fishy, that’s why. God knows the RAF tried hard enough back in the old days. I put it down to that Eating Command diet of ours. Plenty of health-giving cholesterol in those wonderful flight-bag rations.’

  ‘I might point out that Ken’s having these sausages under a special dispensation,’ his wife said firmly, ‘so he’d better make the most of them.’ She had been a Princess Mary nurse when they were married. ‘After this weekend it’s back to yoghurt-and-like-it.’ She had retired as a principal matron, which Amos thought ranked her equivalent to a group captain or something.

  ‘You see how she bullies me?’ Ken edged a piece of fried egg unsteadily on to the corner of a piece of toast and ate it with obvious pleasure. He had left the service a mere squadron leader before setting up the business in which he had so spectacularly prospered.

  ‘Are you going up to Wearsby straight after this?’ Amos asked them.

  ‘Straightish. We need to find a garage first: we’ve blown a fuse somewhere and none of the bloody windows will open. Don’t you just hate modern cars? What was wrong with winding-handles, I should like to know?’

  ‘You mean you haven’t come in one of your flamboyant museum pieces? I thought it paid to advertise.’ Ken’s company restored classic cars for what his brochure odiously described as ‘a bespoke clientele’. ‘What was wrong with that monster you were swanning about in before Christmas?’

  ‘The Hispano-Suiza? Sold it, unfortunately, and you don’t want to hear for how much. A beauty. But the engine was over ten litres, and at current petrol prices this journey would have bankrupted us well before we’d reached Reigate. Anyway, because of my shy and retiring nature I thought Annie and I would blend in a bit better with a cooking car. We leave the showing-off to others. I now wish we hadn’t. That J-12 had silk-smooth window winders, as well as headlamps a foot across. So where are we going to buy a fuse for our wretched Japanese heap?’

  ‘On a Saturday?’

  ‘Come on, even in the wilds of Lincolnshire somebody must sell fuses. We’ll look around. At this rate I’d say up at the airfield round about twelve. I assume nothing much will happen until well after lunch. We’ll be largely a gathering of old buffers, don’t forget. I’d bet on most saving themselves for the dinner tonight. We’ll take it easy this morning. Give Annie time to powder her nose.’

  ‘And you time to get the egg off your tie,’ said his wife tartly.

  ‘Oh blast, I haven’t, have I?’

  An hour later as Amos neared the airfield he began to recognise familiar landmarks. Good God, he thought as a skeletal structure loomed behind some trees: a huge rectangular iron reservoir atop a tower of girders, the whole thing painted black. It’s still there. He remembered it as a useful landmark to glimpse out of a Vulcan cockpit’s side window when on finals. He could see the tank was now considerably rusted and had become partially hidden behind trees that had grown up around it. The rest of the landscape, though, looked flatter and bleaker than he remembered. No elms now, of course. Everything seemed to have been strangely denuded in the last, well, how long? Had he really not been back to his old station for over forty years? It didn’t seem possible. All the intervening time spent plodding up BOAC’s and then BA’s seniority ladder had distanced him from that earlier and arguably happiest part of his life. Still, he had kept in touch with a few of his old mates, some of whom had stayed on and risen to the dizzy rank of air vice-marshal and the like. Amos had retired just before the turn of the new century as the airline’s most senior Boeing 747 captain, with his silver hair looking disconcertingly like Captain Oveur in Airplane! played by Peter Graves.

  Suddenly the otherwise familiar road sprang a junction off to the right that he didn’t recognise. He passed it and slowed. The new road headed off towards what should surely have been runway two-four – yes, it would have to go slap across it to those new buildings . . . The car moved forward and Amos could now see what looked like a factory with a sign proclaiming the name and logo of a brand of flat-pack furniture. Beyond that the road evidently continued towards a group of new office buildings visible in the distance. So would that be where the old fire dump had been? Disoriented and faintly dismayed, he let the car amble on towards the main gate. This looked unchanged but for the absence of armed military police and their dogs. On the grassy island in front of it stood a down-at-heel twin-engined transport aircraft as the gate guardian. A Viking? A Valetta? He couldn’t remember, but thought that in his day they’d had a Whitley, a real bomber, appropriately enough for a Bomber Command station. He wondered what had happened to it. He turned in at the gate, feeling an atavistic urge to fumble for his F.1250, and carried on to the old admin block, which from a distance didn’t look too different from what he remembered. He presumed the other end of the runway two miles off was unchanged and that it still stopped as it had forty years ago at the main road.

  He became aware of the tall shapes of tail fins above the hedge. They’ve at least got a Victor, he thought to himself, plus that dirty white rounded slab poking up over there probably belongs to a Hastings or similar old transport. Once through the gates he could see a substantial collection of aircraft off to his right, parked on a big stretch of grass he didn’t remember. After all, the place was now billing itself as Wearsby Air Museum. Signs pointed to a car park behind the admin block which was now labelled ‘Ticket Office and Shop’. Amos left the car and went in. An enormously fat woman sat behind a counter on which was a spread of brochures and guides, a plate of rock cakes and a till. Suspended on steel cables from the ceiling of the large room behind her was what looked like the dusty port wing of a Chipmunk.

  ‘I’m here for the reunion,’ Amos said. ‘Do I need to pay an entrance fee?’

  ‘Bless you, no. For this weekend you’re a Cold War hero, and heroes get in free here. Anybody else we squeeze dry.’ She laughed with such good humour Amos found himself smiling. It was a warm day and a fan on the table behind her turned its face mechanically from side to side like a celebrity bestowing smiles, regularly stirring a Union Jack on a stand. ‘Just wear your reunion badge, though.’

  Amos took it from his jacket pocket and dutifu
lly pinned it to a lapel.

  ‘You need to go out –’ she raised a bolster-like arm dimpled with cellulite and indicated a direction off to the left – ‘and look for the big white marquee next to Hangar 2. Have you been to Wearsby before?’

  Wanly he smiled. ‘I was based here in the sixties.’

  ‘Really? Was that the time of the spy scandal?’ She studied his faux-Hollywood looks. ‘Maybe we met in the old days? I used to work in the NAAFI here in sixty-eight.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’d gone by then. So you’re a local?’

  ‘Stayed on, got used to the Fens, met a bloke, had a family, got fat. My life story, by me. You’ll find a few changes here if you’ve not been back since then.’