Spitfire Girl (25 page)

There was little news. Leo had communicated with Abadan by wireless to confirm the arrangements for bringing a propeller by charter aircraft but without success. It might come and we were to remain standing by. Evidently Sharja, London, Rangoon, Abadan, Teheran and Tel Aviv were all working furiously, and independently. ‘No doubt,’ commented Gordon sourly, ‘six propellers will arrive simultaneously.’

If we could possibly locate a W/T set we were to try and contact Leo at Sharja by wireless telegraphy at 1400 hours G.M.T.

Gordon passed the helmet to me and climbed out of the cockpit. I replaced him and spoke to Sonny as he continued circling overhead like a motherly hen guarding its chicks. ‘How is it?’ he brooded tenderly. ‘Could be worse,’ I answered, envying him his transport to fitted bathrooms, good food and air conditioning.

‘What about Gordon?’ he continued, the inference obvious.

‘All right so far,’ I replied.

Gordon waved me to switch off.

‘’Bye, Sonny. Battery is getting low.’

‘Cheerio. See you tomorrow,’ and his voice faded.

Gordon watched me guardedly as I climbed out of the cockpit, as though aware of Sonny’s implied reproof. His face cleared as I smiled at him and we both watched Sonny vanish in the haze, leaving the silence to return and enfold us as though he were no more.

We returned to ‘Point Four’ to find a few grains of sand swept into corners and the appetizing aroma of cooking halting the desert’s stealthy approach. Our bags were unpacked and a broken mirror leaned crazily on the bathroom mantelshelf.

That evening we spent an abortive and farcical hour at Army headquarters trying to contact Sharja by wireless. All pilots learn Morse code, but years of neglect had reduced Gordon and me to a dubious five words or so a minute. We coped adequately with ‘a’s and ‘b’s etcetera, but ‘k’s, ‘w’s and xyz reduced us to giggling hysteria. Eventually we wrote our message down in Morse and operated the key on what we hoped was the correct frequency. We achieved precisely nothing but pained anguish on the face of the Iranian radio operator who spoke only Persian and, no doubt, confusion throughout the ether.

Walking home along the lonely shores of the Gulf, Gordon groped for my hand. I let him take it for refusal would have been more significant. In my mind’s eye I looked at us both. Two solitary figures leaving footprints in the sand. I saw them stop, look at each other and kiss as the soft ripples curled around their feet.

We did stop and looked out over the Gulf that shimmered like silver lamé. We waited. The past seemed divorced, the present a gossamer thing protected by isolation, the future not thought of though intangibly present.

I don’t know how long we waited for the other to make the first move; wanting to kiss not each other but the companion who shared the beauty of the night, before he broke the mood by lighting a cigarette.

T
he following day, Wednesday, we packed sandwiches,
borrowed a thermos flask which we filled with lemonade and drove out to the field for the possible arrival of the Rapide aircraft from Abadan. The jeep returned to Bandar Abbas, leaving Gordon and me alone apart from the solitary sentry who retired tactfully to the other end of the field.

We inspected our two Spitfires, by now covered with a thin film of sand that emphasized their insignificance in the patient desert. The silence was intense and, allied with the shimmering heat that produced convincing mirages, joined us together in a natural intimacy that made us speak in whispers, unwilling to shatter the solemn atmosphere that made nonsense of the passage of time.

‘Look,’ I whispered and pointed towards the mountains that danced in the heat. We both watched the peasant, astride his donkey, come from nowhere and vanish behind a sand dune. He was asleep, his head nodding, his legs dangling a few inches from the ground. The donkey, seemingly oblivious of the burden that should have pressed him to the ground, moved intently and neatly on his delicate hooves and flicked viciously at the flies with his tail.

‘I wonder where he came from...’

‘And where he’s going to,’ added Gordon.

We were silent and both, I think, a little envious. Gordon raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly, his face thoughtful.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

‘Oh nothing... I sometimes wonder...’

‘What?’ I encouraged.

‘Who’s right. They or us. The donkey or the Spitfire.’

I looked at the aircraft, incongruous in their desert coat, far from their halcyon days of 1940 as the sole defenders of a way of life that, in this moment of truth, had become as insignificant and petty as the squabbling of pampered children. There was no other sign of human endeavour except the windsock, motionless and hanging vertically to the ground, to mar this solitary antiquity. This scene, this horizon, had not changed since the earth was born. And now, it had not changed but was changing us.

‘Let’s walk.’

We walked over the dunes and wadis. Over alternating mud and burning sand. Walked until the aircraft and the windsock were out of sight.

‘I think this is you,’ I observed suddenly.

‘Say again,’ he grinned cynically, breaking the spell. It was cruel and the anger that always seemed near when I was with him, rose again to the surface. ‘Sometimes I think you are stupid!’

We returned without speaking to the Spitfires, sat on our parachutes and picked idly at the arid sandwiches.

‘Talk,’ I ordered.

‘About what?’

‘Anything. You must have something to say about something.’

‘Well, here we are ladies and gentlemen, lazing under the tropical skies, watching the vast panorama of nature...’

‘Oh, shut up!’ Suddenly he turned to me. We stared at each other, hovering. Simultaneously we dropped our eyes and I swallowed the piece of dry bread that had lodged in my throat.

‘What about the ‘‘T’’?’ I reminded.

We walked to the northern end of the field and selected a position for the ‘‘T”.

‘I’m glad it isn’t a ‘‘W’’,’ he observed.

‘I don’t see what difference...’ I said, striving to maintain the change of subject.

‘I’ll draw a picture,’ he said. ‘The ‘‘W’’ goes down, up, down and up again. The ‘‘T’’...’

‘All right, pedant.’

We plucked some of the whitewashed stones that bordered the landing area and began laying out the outline of the ‘‘T’’. Obstinately I selected large stones and staggered under their weight, whilst he then ostentatiously gathered tiny fragments. This farce went on for two minutes before I surrendered and collapsed in a crumbled heap on to the sand. Gordon leered malignantly, murmuring something about the emancipation of women, and carried on working.

After two hours the ‘T’ was finished and we lay down beside it, admiring our handiwork.

‘It isn’t straight,’ I pointed out.

‘It is,’ he argued. I got up, walked fifty yards along the landing strip, knelt on the sand and sighted my eyes down the shank of the ‘T.’ It
was
two or three degrees out of parallel with the runway. ‘It isn’t,’ I shouted. He joined me, lay flat on the ground and squinted at the ‘T.’ ‘You win,’ he smiled, turning to me, ‘but it stays that way.’

I agreed with a nod and we returned to the Spitfires.

We lay on our parachutes, dozing and sipping the blood-warm lemonade. The sentry joined us and stared curiously. I offered him a drink. He appraised it dubiously, sipped it, spat with a grimace and smiled apologetically. He looked at my legs and thighs stretched tightly in the khaki slacks, moved his eyes to Gordon, back to my thighs, shrugged and trudged off to the farthest end of the field.

‘Wonder what he dreams about,’ commented Gordon idly before we dozed.

Gordon’s voice woke me. ‘We’ve had it for today. The Rapide isn’t coming.’

‘Nor Leo,’ I added, glancing at the sun and my watch. It was three-thirty.

‘I’ve enjoyed today,’ remarked Gordon, without preamble.

I nodded in assent. ‘I’ve enjoyed it too.’

Promptly at four o’clock a cloud of dust signified the arrival of the jeep.

That evening, after an austere supper, we sat on the veranda overlooking Bandar Abbas. The unshaded fight swung gently in the evening breeze, like an incense burner, and threw shadows across our faces. The distant murmur, of the Persian Gulf emphasized the calm of the sky as I sang snatches from light opera; the lyrics adding poignancy to the extraordinary peace that I felt.

The following morning Gordon drove out alone to the
airfield whilst I attended to our smalls. He returned, to my surprise, shortly after noon, streaked with oil and mud. ‘The bloody jeep broke down,’ he said.

‘Must you swear?’

‘Sorry. You can take the bloody thing next time and I’ll do the washing,’ he answered vehemently.

I laughed, despite myself.

Leo had flown over from Sharja. A propeller was being flown from Israel to Abadan by a
Sabena
aircraft chartered to bring Jewish immigrants from Bombay to Israel. From Abadan the arrangements were still vague. The cost of chartering the Rapide aircraft was prohibitive and, consequently, this idea had been dropped.

‘That means,’ commented Gordon, ‘we won’t have to go out to the field every day.’

Leo was still receiving a stream of contradictory cables, one of which ordered that I should leave Gordon behind and join the others at Sharja as soon as possible.

‘That’s stupid,’ I protested.

‘Why?’

‘Why don’t Leo and Sonny go on to Burma and you and I continue as soon as your prop arrives? Supposing you go down, nobody will know where you are. If the two of us fly together, at least we will be able to pin-point the position if one of us should crash.’

‘True enough,’ replied Gordon, ‘but enough time has been wasted already. The Burmese want at least three Spits as quickly as possible.’

‘Why three? Why not two, or four?’ I interjected heatedly. ‘One Spitfire isn’t going to make all that difference.’

‘Well, Leo’s the boss and that’s the way he wants it. Anyway I can fly to Burma in short hops. I’ll land at Jiwani to refuel...’

‘What about Calcutta-Rangoon?’

‘I can land at Akyab.’

I felt a little happier about it. By landing at these intermediate aerodromes he could cut down on the long sea crossings and fly closer to the coasts. ‘All right,’ I admitted reluctantly, doubting that he would in fact detour. ‘When do you think I can leave?’

‘I suggested to Leo about three days’ time, provided we have no more rain. I checked the field this morning. It’s still dangerous. If you don’t arrive at Sharja by Monday Leo will fly over to see what’s happening. He won’t come again otherwise.’

‘Fine. What about the batteries?’

‘Blast! I forgot them. The radio was weak this morning. I meant to bring them in. I’ll have to drive back to the field. Pop over to Dustmalchi and see whether he can arrange to have them charged somewhere.’

‘Yes, sir!’ I replied formally.

He grinned and left.

On Saturday we drove out to the field, accompanied by the engineer and a few labourers, to prepare the strip for my departure.

After examining the field we chose a take-off path a few yards to the left of centre of the north-south strip. The labourers scrutinized every inch and filled in the treacherous soft patches with dry shingle. We walked and worked with them, their dignity bringing lustre to the comradeship. The engineer swore vehemently at one who accidentally knocked his spade against the wheel of my aircraft. Gordon walked quickly over to the labourer, patted him on the back and offered him a cigarette. He walked back to me, saw my eyes and blushed furiously.

‘Why?’ I asked, knowing the answer but wanting his admission of sensitivity.

‘He looked hurt,’ he replied, avoiding my eyes.

‘You have hurt me many times.’

‘You can take care of yourself,’ he answered neutrally, walking away.

‘It is strange that you two are married,’ observed the engineer.

I reddened. ‘Why do you say that?’

He looked at me shrewdly. ‘You both behave as though you are still courting.’

I turned uncertainly to the aircraft, as the engineer left to drive his truck for over an hour monotonously up and down the field, the wheels crushing the surface into some semblance of firmness. Gordon and I checked my Spitfire before we washed the mud from the undercarriage and radiators, checked the level of the oil, petrol and glycol, polished the windscreen and fitted the newly charged battery.

‘Do you want to run the engine?’ asked Gordon.

‘What about the battery?’

‘You’re right. We should save it until you are ready to go. I’ll pull the prop through.’ He struggled, like Laocoön with the snake, turning the propeller until the sweat dripped from his aquiline nose. ‘Seems O.K.,’ he gasped. ‘She’s ready to go.’

We tied the Spitfires down for the night and walked slowly along the strip on a final inspection. It was a serious moment. ‘I still don’t like it,’ commented Gordon, with a frown, stamping his heel into the surface. ‘If you go over on your back you haven’t a chance. There is nothing here to get you out.’

‘I’m not leaving until tomorrow. It will be better then.’

The engineer drove up in his truck. ‘What do you think?’ I called as he jumped down from the seat.

‘I know nothing of flying,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘These are the first aeroplanes I have seen here in three years. The last one was a Russian. They also were bogged... for three weeks. What do they weigh?’ he added, nodding to the Spitfires.

‘About seven thousand pounds with the present fuel load,’ I answered.

‘Hum, just over three tons.’ He pursed his lips. ‘It’s a pity we haven’t got a roller. Can you not wait a few more days?’

‘I’d rather she left as soon as possible,’ said Gordon.

‘Do they gain speed quickly?’ asked the engineer.

‘Yes,’ I answered.

‘She should be airborne in a 150 yards,’ added Gordon.

‘Is she a good pilot?’ enquired the engineer, appraising me dubiously.

‘Lousy,’ grinned Gordon.

‘Ah. I have met the English before. That means she is good. I think,’ he continued, ‘that tomorrow will be difficult. Perhaps the next day...’