Spitfire Girl (19 page)

The Arab states surrounding Israel on three sides: Egypt, Trans-Jordan, Lebanon, Syria and Iraq, though soundly beaten during the Arab-Israel war, refused to recognize the existence of Israel and, in an endeavour to give substance to this shadowy wishful thinking, had imposed a strangling economic blockade. To the West, of course, Israel had complete freedom of movement and trade via the Mediterranean, but she was completely cut off to the North, South and East.

The Israeli Government had suggested sending the Spitfires by ship but, as Egypt also blockaded the Suez Canal against Israeli shipping, the Spitfires would have to be shipped either through some complicated cloak and dagger subterfuge via Europe before going through the Canal or be on the high seas for weeks during the interminable voyage around the Cape. Either way would take too long. The Burmese required the aircraft urgently. ‘That,’ concluded Stock, ‘is where we come in.’
*

‘What are you grinning at?’ asked Stock later, as the car topped the mountains and revealed a superb sweep of azure coast before descending in a series of hairpin bends to the Dome Hotel nestling on the Mediterranean shore.

‘Oh, nothing,’ I lied. It seemed callous to confess after his sombre review of the situation in the Middle East that I was happier than I had been for years.

*
Such is the sensitivity of the Arab States on the subject of Israel I have been asked by the company concerned to adopt assumed names both for itself and its pilots in order that their future relations will not be impaired. It is regretted therefore that the name of the company and of the pilots’ mentioned in the original Spitfire ferry flights are fictitious.

Robinson’s estimate of two days before the first three
Spitfires arrived from Israel proved to be optimistic. For ten days we sunbathed and swam in tiny pirate coves along the northern coast. At sunset, as the extravagant colours of the day relented and resigned to the soft-mood indigo of Mediterranean night, we sipped tinkling drinks on the hotel veranda flanked by bright villas and immediately backed by gaunt craggy mountains that rose steeply in monastic silence.

Pearce and I agreed at least twice daily as we compared our tans that this was the way to live, particularly when one’s conscience was soothed by an expense account. Stock of course did not agree. He spent his days at the aerodrome sending blistering cables to Israel and attending to mail pursuing him from England.

On the eleventh day, after Pearce and I had returned from an early drive to the Castle of St. Hilarian where Richard Coeur-de-Lion had done something or other, we were called to the telephone. It was Stock: ‘The Spitfires have just arrived. Get down here as soon as you can. I want you to test-fly them today. You’re leaving tomorrow.’

We changed from our tourist clothes and drove quickly to the airport. Stock, Robinson and the three Israeli pilots were waiting in Air Services’ temporary office. I confess I stared at the Israelis. I do not know whether I expected them to have horns growing out of their heads but I was faintly surprised that they were perfectly normal. Their leader, Hugo, had the physique of a rugby full-back and twinkling eyes that gradually closed to slits as his slow smile brought every muscle of his face into play. He spoke English with calm assurance, his imperturbable good humour undisturbed by the patronizing tone adopted by my colleagues and, probably, myself.

One of the pilots, fair and boyish, sensed our patronage and was taciturn as I walked out with him to my Spitfire to refresh my memory of the controls. He jumped on to the wing as I climbed into the cockpit. It had been a decade but the snug cockpit and the long nose, were instantly familiar. I closed my eyes and sucked the smell into my lungs before paying attention as the Israeli pilot leaned over my shoulder and pointed out the controls. I nodded and asked intelligent questions from the past; knowing the answers but trying to win a smile. I asked him about Palestine – ‘Israel,’ he corrected – but he preferred to explain the operation of the long-range auxiliary petrol tank: an extra tank slung snugly beneath the belly of the Spitfire giving it a mildly obscene pregnant look, and doubling the range from a normal 350 miles to approximately 700. It was a tricky business to change tanks and I followed carefully as he explained the procedure. We would need every gallon of fuel on some of the legs to Burma.

‘The belly-tank doesn’t feed too happily over 15,000 feet,’ he warned. ‘If it cuts, switch back to your main tank. The belly-tank will come on all right at a lower altitude.’

Stock came over: ‘O.K., Jackie?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘Right. Take her up for half an hour and get used to her.’

The Israeli pilot watched closely as I started up. Hugo’s face was screwed up into his irresistible smile as I taxied past.

I climbed to 20,000 feet and tried the belly-tank. It came on perfectly. With that over I dived in preparation for a loop when I suddenly recalled Hugo’s warning: ‘No violent manœuvres with the belly-tank.’ Pity. I contented myself with lazy turns and a bird’s-eye view of Cyprus.

‘How was she?’ asked Robinson after I landed.

‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘A bit slow after the Jets.’

Pearce and Robinson then took up their Spitfires with similar results. That evening we moved to an hotel in Nicosia in preparation for a dawn start the next morning.

After dinner we had a final conference on flight tactics and ‘our story’ if we were forced down or interrogated. Robinson would lead, with Pearce on his left and myself on the right in open V formation. The route would be: Cyprus-Habbaniya-Bahrain-Sharja-Karachi-Jodhpur-Cawnpore-Calcutta-Rangoon. There followed a long complicated wrangle over what altitude we should fly. Pearce opted for 11,000 feet but Robinson preferred to take advantage of the higher favourable winds at 20,000 feet despite the discomfort of oxygen masks necessary at that height. I sat on the fence though secretly biased in Pearce’s favour. Sitting for over three hours in a seat as cramped as the one-and-ninepennies at the cinema, in a temperature twenty degrees below zero and sucking at the same time on an oxygen mask, reminiscent of a war-time gas mask, was not an enviable proposition. But as Robinson was our most experienced Spitfire pilot and there was no authority on this matter, 20,000 feet it was.

‘Our story’ was that we were pilots under contract to the Burmese Government to ferry the aircraft from Cyprus to Burma.
True
. When or how the aircraft came to Cyprus we had not the foggiest idea.
False
. If we were taxed with the suggestion that the Spitfires originally came from Israel we were to wear a look of astonishment and reply: ‘Really?’

Stock, a Burmese engineering officer and the Israeli
pilots were at the aerodrome to see us off and helped us pack our luggage in the Spitfires’ gun panels a few minutes before dawn. As the others sipped a farewell cup of coffee I slipped into the Ladies’ Room and touched my forehead, chest and shoulders. Thirty minutes later I was glad that I had done so.

We took off and formed up into formation before turning east into the rising sun, and climbed steadily to 20,000 feet. The mountains cast long shadows on the sleepy plains that had the newly washed look of dawn. The dew had dried from my wings when my engine cut, roared and cut again. ‘Belly-tank!’

‘Catch up, Jackie,’ ordered Robinson over the R/T.
*
I most earnestly wished that I could. I was too busy changing petrol tanks and hurriedly pushing and pulling knobs to reply.

‘Jackie. What’s going on? Catch up.’

‘I can’t. My engine’s cut.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Fuel pressure... belly-tank.’

‘Switch back to main tank.’

‘I have; she’s still cutting.’

‘Jesus,’ murmured Pearce.

Too late. I had already solicited His aid. The fuel pressure warning light flickered ominously as Robinson and Pearce turned back and circled.

‘Can you make it back to Nicosia?’

It was a pertinent question.

‘I don’t know,’ I answered rather weakly, turning 180 degrees back to the aerodrome. ‘I’ll try.’ I had lost about 3,000 feet when the engine made me jump by suddenly bursting into hearty unapologetic life. I checked the fuel-pressure warning light. It was out.

‘She’s O.K. now,’ I shouted. ‘Carry on.’

We had just turned back on to an easterly course when it cut again. The sweat was dripping into my eyes.

‘Now what?’ asked Robinson, an edge in his voice.

‘It’s cut again,’ I cried.

‘Make up your mind. Is she is or is she ain’t?’

I giggled away the tension. ‘I’ll have to go back.’

‘O.K. We’ll follow you in,’ replied Robinson encouragingly. I was down to 12,000 feet. The tourist’s Mediterranean had lost its appeal.

‘I can’t swim,’ I observed.

‘Got your Mae-West on?’

‘Yes.’

In fits and starts, moments of stark silence followed by bursts of healthy uproar, I straggled back to Nicosia and an emergency landing.

Hugo and his smile met me as I switched off and slumped in sweat in the cockpit. He had been listening in over the R/T in the Control Tower. Stock looked sour. The aerodrome looked delightful. It was good to be back.

After a cursory inspection of my Spitfire and a discussion of the symptoms that now, on firm ground, seemed unexciting, Robinson postponed our departure until dawn the following day for repairs and a short test flight. We tutted and vented our annoyance at this inauspicious start by muttering stock anti-Semitic clichés as we staggered back to Air Services office under a load of parachutes, dinghies, Mae-Wests, oxygen masks, helmets and goggles.

The following morning we got away to a successful start and climbed steeply towards the Syrian coast pin-pointed by the, as yet, innocuous sun. At 12,000 feet I tentatively switched over to the belly-tank and listened anxiously for any change of note in the engine. As I listened Robinson’s voice startled me: ‘Are you on belly-tank, Jackie?’

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘O.K.?’

‘Yes.’

‘You O.K., Pearce?’

‘Fine.’

‘We’ll be crossing the coast in twenty minutes. Watch out for it.’

I peered ahead for the comforting glimpse of surf but the sun had reduced visibility to a few blurred miles. Oil pressure, oil temperature, radiator temperature. Monotonously my eyes swept those vital instruments. Once the coast was crossed they would receive only perfunctory glances.

‘Coast ahead,’ said Pearce. Three mouths pursed in relief. I checked the map. Pretty good. Right on track. Now for the Syrian desert, as bare of landmarks as the sea we had left behind. Four hundred miles of thirst. I looked over at Robinson a hundred yards ahead and to the left. Pearce formed the other side of the V. The sky, three aircraft and the desert. A fragmentary glint in the sky, a faint, elusive throb to the primitive Bedouin living below. It was difficult to believe Taunton and London, tubes and newspapers, money and death existed.

‘O.K., Jackie?’

‘Fine.’

‘O.K., Pearce?’

‘O.K.’

Nearly two hours later I was stiff and sore, wriggling from one cheek to another. Below, the land was scorched with centuries of heat. Up here it was bitterly cold. The oxygen mask chafed. ‘How much longer?’ I asked over the R/T.

‘Twenty minutes,’ answered Robinson, ‘we can start letting down now.’ He lowered his nose slightly and with Pearce and I following like obedient ducklings slowly descended. At 12,000 feet I whipped off the oxygen mask and relaxed as the warmth gradually enveloped us.

‘Habbaniya Control. Uncle Baker 427. Do you read,’ called Robinson. Faintly they answered. ‘Uncle Baker 427. Habbaniya Control. Loud and clear. Go ahead.’

‘Habbaniya Control. 427, Formation three Spitfires, 50 miles north-west. 12,000 feet. Estimate Habbaniya: Zero five. Transmitting for Q.D.M. One-two-three-four-five. Over.’

‘427. Habbaniya Control. Q.D.M. 096.’

‘Roger. 096,’ confirmed Robinson.
*

I checked my compass; we were steering 094. That put us about 5 miles off track. ‘Nice work,’ called Pearce over the R/T. I nodded agreement. It was admirable navigation. A few minutes later the muddy twisting Euphrates glinted dully on the horizon. Ten miles beyond lay Habbaniya, home of R.A.F. Middle-East Command but shortly, under revised treaty agreement, to be taken over by Iraq.

‘Echelon starboard and tuck in tight,’ ordered Robinson. Pearce swung over to my right as we closed up into tight formation and dived low over the runway before streaming in to land.

‘Hello, Miss,’ welcomed an R.A.F. sergeant. ‘Any snags?’

‘No. She’s fine,’ I replied as he helped me out of the cockpit.

‘Long time since we saw Spits,’ he commented. ‘Mark IXs aren’t they?’ I nodded. Here and there an Arab head-dress warned against undisciplined tongues.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Cyprus.’

‘Staying overnight?’

‘I’m not sure. Depends on the flight leader,’ I replied. Overhead the hot white sun looked down unmercifully, parching the soil into gaping cracks that looked like mouths begging for water. ‘There’s a dance tonight in the Sergeants’ Mess,’ he said hopefully.

Robinson walked over from his machine. ‘I’ve got a few snags, Jackie. We’ll stay overnight. Unpack your bags.’

The sergeant grinned happily.

‘We are staying in the R.A.F. transit officers’ mess,’ added Robinson.

The sergeant’s grin froze. ‘Are you an officer?’ he asked lugubriously. I assented sadly before stripping off my overalls.

We drove to the mess in the pick-up truck. ‘Do the R.A.F. know the Spitfires originally came from Israel?’ asked Pearce during the long drive to the far side of the aerodrome. I pricked my ears. It was a question I had not had the temerity to ask.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Robinson easily.

I looked back at the Spitfires parked in a neat yet pugnacious line on the tarmac, their newly painted gold, white and green Burma Air Force markings sparkling exotically in the high noon sun. I hoped it was a good paint job. Hidden beneath were the Mogen Dovids of the Israeli Air Force.