Spitfire Girl (26 page)

‘Well try taxi-ing tomorrow,’ answered Gordon firmly. ‘If she can taxi, then she can take off. Two o’clock. That will give the sun more time to dry it out. Will you be here?’

‘Of course,’ answered the engineer.

‘And about fifteen labourers, a fast truck, axes, ropes, buckets and shovels. Just in case.’

‘Right.’

‘Will you call the men? I’d like to explain tomorrow’s programme and what I want them to do.’

‘We should give them something,’ I suggested.

‘Would you mind if we did?’ enquired Gordon.

‘It isn’t necessary,’ answered the engineer.

‘But we want to,’ I insisted.

‘As you wish,’ shrugged the engineer. He called them over.

‘The lady pilot is taking off tomorrow,’ commenced Gordon, nodding to the engineer to translate. ‘The ground is not very satisfactory but it will be many days before the surface is completely dry and she must leave immediately.’

The engineer continued translating volubly. The labourers whispered amongst themselves, shaking their heads.

‘There is’, continued Gordon, ‘a very slight possibility that the aeroplane may suddenly stick in the mud and go over on its back. If it does, it may catch fire, with the lady pilot trapped inside.’

After the engineer translated this, with suitable gestures, the men shook their heads violently. We had become good friends.

‘Therefore if an accident does happen, we haven’t much time. Before she starts her take-off we will all get into the truck with axes, ropes, poles and buckets of sand. When the lady pilot starts her take-off we will follow her in the truck. If she crashes we must get this side panel open,’ he pointed to the emergency release panel, ‘with axes if necessary and pull her out. If there is a fire we will use the sand buckets. If we can’t get her out that way then we must lift one wing and try to release her from underneath... We will need about fifteen men to lift the wing,’ he added. He waited until the engineer completed his translation. ‘Just one more thing. If there is a fire, it is possible that the petrol tanks may explode.’ There was a mutter, almost of rebellion, as they looked accusingly at Gordon. ‘It is the lady pilot’s wish that she leave as soon as possible,’ he explained hurriedly.

‘Will you detail two men for the axes and three for the buckets. The remainder are to stand clear until I give other instructions. Explain to them they must not get in each other’s way.’

The engineer assented.

‘Everything clear?’

‘Perfectly. They offer their prayers.’

‘I prefer their sinews,’ replied Gordon sardonically.

‘I think I should be the one to decide that,’ I interjected. ‘Tell them I return their prayers.’

Gordon raised an eyebrow and stared coldly at me. For fully fifteen seconds we glared at each other. Finally he sighed, rummaged in his pockets and gave the men our tokens of gratitude. They accepted the money graciously, without servility.

‘Sorry by the way, to make that speech of mine so melo­dramatic. I wanted them to understand that tomorrow will be no joke,’ explained Gordon.

‘I understand,’ I answered, furious with myself that he could soothe my ruffled feelings so easily. His mastery of insult, followed by the soft manner, left me swinging like a pendulum between active dislike and regard.

We collected the shovels and other equipment and got into the truck. The labourers climbed in the back and braced themselves for the rough ride back to Bandar Abbas. I looked back at my Spitfire straddling the desert, its potential returned. Tomorrow I would fly again... perhaps.

That evening I said good-bye to our friends. Gordon bought some beer and we sat on the veranda with Dustmalchi and his wife; the engineer; the army colonel who returned my passport; the doctor, and his wife who still stared at me with a puzzled frown. It was a sad gathering, for most of them were exiled in Bandar Abbas and politely envied my impending departure. After they left, Gordon and I continued sitting on the veranda, I with my thoughts, he with the last bottles of beer. I waited for the aggressiveness that always followed whenever he drank beer in my presence.

‘I’m going to miss you,’ he said.

‘It won’t be for long. Your prop should arrive within a week. You will probably meet up with us in Rangoon,’ I answered, pleased with his admission.

‘Maybe. You might start on the next trip before I return to Tel Aviv.’ He poured another glass. ‘I wouldn’t like that,’ he added.

‘Neither would I,’ I observed, the words echoing significantly in the soft midnight air. I savoured them again like a wine merchant tasting an unexpectedly pleasing vintage.

He got up and leaned against the balustrade that overlooked Bandar Abbas. Turning, he beckoned me to join him. For the last time I gazed at the feeble lights and listened to the painful honking of a nearby mule. I knew that this was a moment that would be recalled many times in my life. Overhead the moon, its valleys clearly visible, tugged treacherously at me as though I were the tides to be pushed and pulled at its command. Defiantly I returned to my chair. He turned, his ally the moon mocking me from his shoulder. It seemed as though he commanded nature; the sea glittering with silver; the sky with stars; the dark mountains isolating Bandar Abbas from the rest of the world; even the zephyr breeze had calmed, awaiting the outcome of this moment.

‘I think you should go to bed,’ he announced baldly, flicking his cigarette over the balustrade.

Without a word I left.

As I lay in bed I could hear him pacing overhead. His footsteps echoed hollowly, like a drum. Suddenly the footsteps ceased their monotonous indecision and clumped downstairs. There was a determination in them that frightened me. Quickly I turned on my side and feigned sleep.

‘Are you asleep?’ he whispered.

I did not answer. Neither did I answer the sigh that followed. His lips brushed my temple like a shadow before he creaked into his camp-bed. I lay silently, secretly touching my temple.

‘Good-night,’ I said quietly, wanting him to know I knew he had kissed me. But it was too late. He was asleep.

At noon the following day we ate a Spartan lunch of
cheese, olives and goat’s milk, packed my luggage and drove to the airfield. Behind us, invisible in the cloud of dust, trailed our friends in a convoy of jeeps and lorries. Ahead, the horizon shimmered in the heat, making the palm trees look like women dancing with their skirts held high. Gordon sat beside me, his face inscrutable. Unable to emulate his example, I hid my emotions behind my sunglasses. My stomach was tight with the vicarious thrill that presages all my flights.

As my Spitfire appeared, parked on the edge of the airfield, as though born of the desert, I felt grateful for its uncompromising appeal; its ability to soar with me into the waiting sky, to cut the umbilical cord of care and transport me to a world of ego, simplicity and space.

Gordon squeezed my bags into the gun panels as I gave the aeroplane a cursory inspection. Everything was ready; the bond already welded that separated the Spitfire and me from those who were to be left behind. I strapped on my parachute and helmet and climbed into the cockpit. By now we were surrounded by peasants. Gordon motioned them back until they stood in a long thin line like spectators at a football match. I waved good-bye to them as Gordon jumped up on the wing to help me with my straps.

‘All set?’ asked Gordon.

‘Yes,’ I answered.

‘O.K. Start her up and taxi down to the other end of the field. You’ll have to switch off there and let her cool down.’

‘O.K.,’ I replied. I adjusted the controls; petrol on, parking brake on, mixture set to idle cut-off, throttle slightly open. ‘All clear?’ I shouted.

‘All clear,’ answered Gordon.

‘Contact!’ Impatiently she burst into life. The instruments rose sluggishly into action. Anxiously I watched the oil pressure gauge; she had been sitting idle for a long time. Slowly it rose, 50,60,70... 75. Just right. I signalled Gordon to pull the stones away from the wheels, and gingerly opened the throttle. Would she move? Like a jockey I urged her on. Slowly she inched forward; I gave her more throttle as she lurched uncertainly through the clinging top-soil. Gordon and the spectators had vanished in the sand driven from my slipstream.

I taxied slowly to the end of the field, turned, lined up carefully with the take-off path and switched off. The silence was deafening. The field had disappeared in a cloud of sand. I sat, waiting patiently, until Gordon and the others appeared dimly through the cloud.

Gordon jumped up on the wing, his face and hair covered with dust; his eye-lashes exaggerated as though with beige mascara. ‘How was it?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Not bad,’ I answered encouragingly. ‘I needed about 1300 revs to keep her moving.’

‘As much as that?’ he frowned.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to try it? It’s up to you.’

‘Yes.’

‘How are the temperatures?’

‘A bit high. Radiator’s about a hundred and five. I’ll wait a few minutes.’

‘Do you want to jump out?’

‘It isn’t worth it. I’ll sit here.’ I eased off my helmet and loosened the straps. We waited with the embarrassed suspension of waiting for a train to leave. The engineer’s truck was parked nearby.

‘Don’t forget, keep your brakes on as long as you can as you open the throttle. As soon as you feel the tail coming up slam on full throttle, through the gate, and watch out for the swing. She’ll swing like hell at plus eighteen boost. Use full right rudder bias on your trim. Keep the stick back when you open the throttle. If you go over, cut your switches and petrol. We’ll be right with you.’ His face was creased with worry; he couldn’t keep still.

‘Stop fussing. I’ll be all right.’

‘Keep your carburettor air filter open, that will give you another inch of boost’

‘What about the sand?’

‘To hell with the sand.’ We waited another five minutes. ‘She’s cool enough now.’

He helped me with the straps, trussing me up like a chicken.

‘Hey, that’s too tight,’ I protested.

‘It won’t be if you go over on your back.’

I put my helmet on.

‘All set?’

‘All set,’ I replied.

He grasped my hand, squeezed it and fussed with my harness. Deliberately I left my oxygen mask off. The spectators and labourers watched silently. The doctor’s wife wore a look of worried comprehension.

‘You had better kiss me good-bye,’ I suggested as lightly as I could. ‘We are supposed to be married.’

He leaned down into the cockpit and kissed me. It was an awkward kiss. The helmet strap disciplined my lips, the struggle for balance his. But there was a delicacy and honour in the kiss that was a fitting tribute to our relationship. And a fitting end. I felt proud that we had resisted turning an elusive yet profound intimacy into something of which at this moment, now that it must end, we would have felt ashamed. It had been a parenthesis in both our lives. We acknowledged its significance, and its demise, as our eyes lingered in farewell.

‘Call me on the R/T after you take off,’ he said shyly. ‘I’ll be listening out on my Spit. Tell Leo to fly over if there is any change of plan. Otherwise the three of you carry on. I’ll see you when I see you. And watch the swing!’ He jumped down and stood on the running board of the engineer’s truck parked parallel with me.

She started easily as though anxious to be off. Mechanically I went through the vital actions necessary before take-off and, with a final wave, slowly opened the throttle. Minus 3, minus 2, zero, plus 1. She shook and trembled with frustrated power, as I still held on the brakes. More throttle. More until she shook with rage. At plus 2 I felt the tail lighten... This is it! I released the brakes. With a jerk the Spitfire charged into exultant action. I slammed the throttle fully open to emergency power and kicked full right rudder as she began to swing. Come on. Come on! Out of the corner of my eye I saw the truck racing with me. 40... 50... 60. Still she clung to the topsoil, the long nose swaying and bobbing violently. I fought against the temptation to ease the control column forward. The truck had gone. Suddenly the lurching ceased... I was airborne, free. We soared violently into the sky.

Shaking, I throttled back until the panic roar of the engine subsided to normal climb power and switched on the radio.

‘Hello, Gordon. Jackie here,’ I called.

‘Are you all right?’ he replied instantly, his voice metallically different, over the radio.

‘Fine,’ I answered.

‘I can’t see you. You blew up a dust storm.’

I looked down. The aerodrome was covered with a long trail of dust that billowed high into the air. To the south I could see Bandar Abbas sandwiched between the Gulf and the desert.

‘How was the take-off?’

‘Not bad. I swung... couldn’t see a thing with the tail down.’

‘You are in the air. That’s all that matters. It’s clear now. Come down and do a beat-up,’ he said.

‘Roger,’ I replied and dived steeply at his white shirt.

‘Take it easy. You’ve got a belly-tank on you know.’

‘O.K.’

‘Push off. You haven’t got too much petrol.’

‘O.K. I’m on course for Sharja now.’

‘Good-bye.’

‘Good-bye,’ I answered. ‘Take care of yourself.’ There was a metallic click. He had switched off.

I climbed to 7,000 feet before crossing the coast and heading out over the Gulf. I checked the instruments carefully as Bandar Abbas slipped past under my wing and kept myself unnecessarily busy with map-reading. I swallowed and kept swallowing the lump that had lodged in my throat. I loosened the strap of my helmet. It made it easier.

Fifteen minutes later I called on the R/T: ‘Sharja Tower; Uncle Baker 437. Do you read?’

They came back immediately. ‘Uncle Baker four three seven, Sharja Tower. Read you Loud and Clear. Hello, Jackie. Come on in; we’re waiting for you.’

‘Four three seven. Thank you. Are Captains Kastner and Banting there?’ I replied.

‘Sure thing, kid,’ answered Leo’s voice. ‘What’s your E.T.A.?’

‘About twenty minutes,’ I replied.

‘Hurry up. We’ve got a party laid on for you tonight.’