Spitfire Girl (22 page)

Dragged from our beds at 3 a.m. we drove monosyllabic
ally to the aerodrome. Our emotions dominant; our intellect still asleep and unable to resist the atmosphere of tension and irritation that presaged all the flights. Gordon, at his most acid before dawn, met Leo’s incorrigible cheerfulness with verbal violence. We usually had at least one blistering row before we arrived at the aerodrome and were silenced by the dramatic impact of the four Spitfires, floodlit by the fluorescent light bursting from the open hangar doors, waiting silently on the tarmac.

In those moments of pre-flight bustle: ‘Got your emergency kit?’ ‘Where are the spare plugs?’ ‘Who the hell’s got my Mae-West?’ ‘Did you check that oil leak?’ and the final: ‘All set?’ spoken by envious-eyed mechanics; we were supreme. I nodded and laughed with those who would be left behind. Tried to understand them. But felt only a profound sorrow that they could not share my exaltation. In a few minutes I would be alone; would triumph over pettiness; become one with the sky. I would become the Spitfire, joyous, fully dimensional, adrift from a world of logical values. The world at my feet; and death in my hands.

With night still lingering in the west, and flame visible from our exhausts, we took off from Lydda and climbed across the coast of Israel for the turning point, 30 miles out to sea, that would keep us clear of Lebanon and Syria.

With Leo in the lead we straggled in lazy formation, each with his own thoughts; together, but separated by unbridgeable space should mishap occur. I looked down as we passed the sleeping coast. No natural border separated Israel from her bellicose neighbours. The land flowed in brotherhood giving, as a book does, freely to those in need.

As the coast disappeared and we were alone with the sea and sky I felt the first symptoms of unease that attack all pilots when flying single-engined aircraft over long sea crossings. I checked and re-checked the instruments, refusing to be comforted by their assurance of all’s well.

The engine lost its smooth, untroubled beat. The Spitfire became a host of individual parts. Cables that could fray, bearings that could parch and seize, filters that could clog, a million nuts and bolts that could work loose and bring catastrophe. Perhaps even the theory of flight would collapse, leaving me hurtling into the sea, 12,000 feet below.

Simultaneously with the appearance of the Turkish coast my engine cleared and throbbed sweetly. The Spitfire, in a remarkable metamorphosis, became a sleek entity speeding through the air with the grace and omniscience of a bird.

An hour later Diyarbekir aerodrome lay spread out on the plain as though awaiting our arrival. In a confused babble of Turkish and English tongues over the R/T we landed and scurried quickly off the runway as Turkish Air Force F-84 Jet fighters zoomed and buzzed waspishly in their urgent impatience to land. The scene, ten minutes from the Russian border and painted with lavish American aid within the aerodrome boundaries, contrasted ruthlessly with the poverty of peasants working primitively in the fields beyond.

We were met with that grave formal courtesy and efficiency characteristic of the Turkish Air Force, and Leo was advised, owing to a warm front moving in from the south-west, to stay overnight. With his delightful tact he discussed the matter with us before deciding to concur.

The following morning, after a firm promise of clear skies and favourable winds, we took off on the long leg for Kermanshah and spiralled steeply to 20,000 feet before heading due east over the gaunt mountain range where, traditionally, Noah’s Ark rests. As with the sea, so the peaks brought unease. Rising to 14,000 feet and spreading to Kermanshah and beyond, they waited. Waited.

In a spurious attempt to ignore what lay beneath, we chatted inanely over the R/T. Leo who was prone to burst into song at the slightest provocation, sang an aria. I sang another, enjoying the sound of my own voice in the earphones. Sonny muttered something that by its metre I took to be verse. Gordon, as usual, maintained a pointed silence.

Within an hour we were in trouble. The moving warm front of yesterday had not dispersed. High above us the ominous streaks of cirrus cloud had joined into a lowering blanket that slanted down to the peaks straddling the horizon. The fickle sun had deserted us to shine elsewhere.

‘Um,’ said Leo significantly over the R/T.

Silently I agreed with him as the first rain mixed with the film of oil on my windscreen. Tuck in. We’ll have to go through it,’ ordered Leo. Metaphorically we hitched up our sleeves and obeyed as the clouds curled around us in a blinding embrace. I put my useless maps away and clung to Leo’s ghostly silhouette. The mountains had vanished.

‘Where’s Sonny?’ called Leo anxiously.

‘It’s all right,’ answered Sonny, casually. ‘I’m in the box.’

I envied his nonchalance as the rain burst into furious uproar as though determined to purge us from the sky. We carried on, eyes fixed to Leo. One thought unspoken. What was the weather at Kermanshah? We had no radio equipment to guide us down if the clouds reached in a solid blanket to the ground.

‘Time’s up,’ said Leo, twenty minutes later, a contrived coolness in his voice. ‘We should be over Kermanshah.’

‘Kermanshah. Spitfire Uncle Baker 430 calling Kermanshah,’ he called, a moment later.

‘Kermanshah. Spitfire Uncle Baker 430 calling Kermanshah,’ he repeated. We waited for an answer from those hidden below, without whose guiding help we could not descend. Leo repeated the call as we circled in blind turbulent loneliness, in an orbit reduced to artificial horizons and airspeed indicators and the unechoed voice of Leo appealing for help. The sweat was dripping into my oxygen mask.

‘Jackie; you try,’ ordered Leo.

‘Spitfire formation calling Kermanshah. Do you read?’

Silence.

‘Spitfire formation calling Kermanshah. One-two-three-four-five-four-three-two-one. Spitfire formation calling Kermanshah. Come in please,’ I called, putting a siren-like appeal in my voice.

Silence. Damnable silence that brought the first twinge of panic.

‘It’s useless,’ called Leo. ‘They must be on a different frequency. What do we do now? We can’t turn back, we haven’t enough gas.’

‘Turn south towards the plains. We can let down there,’ suggested Sonny.

‘But that’s Iraq,’ protested Leo.

‘Who the hell cares!’ exploded Gordon.

We turned south and flew deeply into forbidden territory away from the mountains before descending through the clouds. Gradually the gloom lightened to an opaque light as the wayward sun returned and shone weakly. At 2,000 feet we broke out of the cloud and found ourselves over desert. I threw the hood open and wiped my hands on my thighs.

‘Anyone know where we are?’ asked Leo optimistically after four distinct sighs of relief had echoed over the R/T.

‘Ha!’

‘Ha!’

‘Ha!’

‘You’re a great help,’ answered Leo acidly. ‘Try and find out. And watch out for Iraqi fighters.’

We edged out into open formation and got out our maps. Our conflicting and irascible observations confirmed that we were completely lost.

‘O.K.’ said Leo decisively. ‘We’ll fly due east until we hit the railway... or run out of gas.’

I looked at my maps. The Iranian State Railway ran due north and south. It was a good tactical move (the railway would pin-point our position)
if
we were west of it.

We flew steadily eastwards beneath the lingering clouds. Twice mirages provoked a cry of ‘There it is’ followed by bitter disappointment. Impersonally the desert slipped by. The tired parched rivers that were its only relief were impossible to identify. There were too many with the similar features of those born from the same womb. I glanced at my watch; our season ticket for flight was fast expiring.

‘How much petrol have you?’ asked Leo.

‘Eighteen gallons,’ said Sonny.

‘Twenty,’ I said.

‘Fourteen,’ said Gordon.

‘I have less than ten,’ commented Leo dryly.

Ten minutes, before gravity asserted calamity.

‘
We’ve had it,’ annonuced Leo coolly. ‘We’ll have to
crash-land. After I’ve stopped, land as close to me as you can. Stick together. Land with your hood open and your straps tight. Keep those wheels
UP
. No heroics, Jackie! Keep those wheels
UP
. You’ll go over on your back if you land with them down.’

‘Roger,’ I answered.

‘Roger,’ echoed Sonny and Gordon. ‘I hope it’s Iran,’ added Leo.

We were absurdly cool as we circled and watched Leo descend in a wide arc towards his shadow on the desolate plain. It was like a typical British film scenario with everyone keeping a stiff upper lip. I wanted to laugh. And cry.

We all saw it at once. The R/T burst into a shrieking babble.

‘Leo... Leo. Runway. On your left.’

‘...runway... Leo... Don’t land.’

‘LEO... on the left!’

‘O.K. O.K. I’ve seen it.’ He turned sharply. I saw his undercarriage coming down. Oh God, let him make it, I prayed as he turned steeply towards the runway dancing like a mirage in the heat. The spurt of dust as his wheels touched down on this miraculous refuge answered my prayer.

‘Thank God,’ I shouted shamelessly over the R/T.

‘With reservations,’ said Gordon dryly. ‘He was responsible for the weather as well, you know.’

‘Oh shut up,’ I shouted as he turned and landed with Sonny and I following him in.

We climbed out of our cockpits and gaggled together. The runway cut starkly and incongruously through the silent desert. Nothing else was witness to our fantastic escape. Nothing but this gaunt concrete, this exquisite tableau. Gordon knelt and kissed it. ‘You beautiful thing,’ he grinned, ‘I love you.’

‘How much petrol did you have left, Leo?’ I asked.

‘None. The gauge showed empty.’

‘I had twelve gallons left.’

‘Eight,’ said Sonny.

‘Five,’ added Gordon.

We were silent for a moment.

‘We are not out of the woods yet,’ reminded Sonny. ‘We may be in Iraq.’

I looked at the Spitfires, unmarked and silent as walls, parked in an impressive line along the runway; their perfection no credit to us.

A tarmac road bordered the runway and ran south through the desert towards a village perched on the horizon. To the north it straggled towards our recent foes, the weather and the mountains. We sat patiently by the roadside awaiting the messenger of incarceration or freedom. After twenty minutes of silence a lorry passed by, ignoring our signals.

‘Did you notice the number plate...?’ asked Leo.

‘Yes. I think it was Arabic...’

‘That’s Iraq.’

‘No. It was Persian.’

‘That’s Iran.’

A small truck approached from the village and sped furiously towards us.

‘This is it,’ I ejaculated. ‘Handshakes or rifles.’ It stopped opposite us. The driver, sans rifle, stepped out on to the sand with a smile and, with unconscious theatrical melodrama, said: ‘Welcome to Iran.’

Simultaneously we burst into hysterical laughter.

‘Sorry,’ I giggled. ‘We thought we were in Iraq.’

‘Where are we?’ asked Leo.

‘Andemeshk,’ he answered. ‘I am the manager of a petrol storage plant down there,’ he continued, pointing to the village. We checked the map; Andemeshk was 150 miles south-east of Kermanshah!

‘Have you any 100 octane petrol?’

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘We’ve had it for years. Three hundred gallons. Can’t get rid of it...’

‘How lucky can we be,’ murmured Sonny.

With the aid of a primitive chamois-leather filter we finished refuelling from four-gallon cans as the sun flirted with the horizon and sent blood-red beams across the desert. It was too late to take off for Abadan.

Our good fortune continued. The manager invited us to stay for the night in his guest house. It was air-conditioned, had a first-class Indian cook and running hot water. Aware of what might have been, we revelled in luxury.

There were only two bedrooms. Accepting the necessity of avoiding Sonny’s reverberating snores, we forced him protesting, into one whilst Leo, Gordon and I shared the other.

The following morning we drove out to the runway and prepared for our take-off to Abadan, 150 miles to the south. We were worried about starting. There was no auxiliary method in Andemeshk should our batteries fail.

Gordon and Sonny started easily, took off immediately and circled the runway. I waited for Leo and watched him fuming in the cockpit as his propeller turned slower and slower and finally stopped with infuriating resignation.

‘Gordon and Sonny, go on to Abadan. Jackie and I will meet you there,’ instructed Leo, over my R/T.

‘Roger,’ acknowledged Gordon, as they turned towards the south. I watched them until they disappeared. At that time I did not know why. I climbed wearily out of my cockpit, the sweat oozing uncomfortably across my lipstick. I envied the men their independence of unnatural enhancement. A shave and they were ready for the day. I hid behind my sunglasses and walked across to Leo.

‘Flat?’ I asked.

‘Yup,’ he answered briefly before adding two words that brought a blush to my sodden cheeks.

We tinkered uselessly with Leo’s battery until a solitary diesel-engined petrol lorry left the village and headed north towards the mountains. Leo pounced on it, contrived a complicated series of wiring from the lorry’s battery to the Spitfire’s starter and grinned triumphantly as his aircraft burst into song.

With a dive of thanks and farewell we left the manager to his oasis in the desert and followed Sonny and Gordon to Abadan.

Leo woke us up in the middle of the night, in the transit
mess at Abadan, groaning with pain and vomiting.

‘What’s the matter, Leo?’ I asked.

‘Beats the hell out of me, Lieutenant,’ he moaned from the bathroom.

The noise awoke Gordon. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked sleepily.

‘Leo’s sick,’ I said as Sonny poked his head enquiringly round the door.

With a final despairing belch Leo returned from the bathroom, clad in startling pyjamas. He was pale and dishevelled, the twinkle missing from his eyes.