Venom Squadron

by Robert Jackson

  Beside him, in the co-pilot’s seat, his maps clenched tightly to his chest, Ibrahim Al-Saleh had his eyes shut.

  ‘All right, we’re airborne,’ Yeoman yelled. The intercom was not working. ‘You can open your eyes now, for the time being at least.’

  The colonel did so, reluctantly, as the shuddering B-26 clawed for altitude. Yeoman managed to get it up to five thousand feet and it juddered along at 150 knots, heading north, with Al-Saleh pointing the way. The green agricultural areas around Faraz quickly gave way to the brown and ochre of the desert, sprinkled with its black outcrops of rock.

  As he looked down and ahead, Yeoman could clearly see a number of vehicle tracks, running arrow-straight across the ground, and realized that they must have been left by the ill-fated scout cars of the Muramshiri Army a couple of days earlier. He set course parallel to them, keeping them on the B-26’S left-hand side, where he could get a good view of them. They made Al-Saleh’s map-reading efforts unnecessary, but Yeoman did not say so; the colonel, who was obviously far from happy, needed something to keep him occupied.

  They had been flying for nearly an hour and a half, saying little, when Al-Saleh suddenly pointed ahead; the pencil-like derricks of the oilfield, tiny at this distance, were poking their tops over the horizon. As they drew closer, the B-26’S two occupants began to see signs of the grim skirmish that had recently taken place in the desert to the south of the oilfield; the sand was blotched with the burnt remains of Muramshiri vehicles, ripped apart by the guns of the Khoratis’ T-34 tanks. Yeoman saw that Al-Saleh’s lips were moving, as though in prayer.

  The pilot turned a little to the east, intending to circle the whole of the oilfield complex, which was swarming with tanks and trucks. Yeoman could see two aircraft that looked like Dakotas on the small airstrip. He kept his distance, not wishing to go in closer; if the Khoratis had set up antiaircraft batteries they would probably be in the vicinity of the airstrip, and he had no desire to give them any target practice.

  They continued the circle, curving round to the north of the site. Beside Yeoman, Al-Saleh was making little notes and sketches on a piece of paper, plotting whatever Khorati positions he could see. As they turned southwards, skirting the western fringe of the site at closer range than before, Yeoman felt suddenly uneasy; there was no fire coming at them from the ground, and that was unnatural. A sixth sense told him to be on his guard.

  A few moments later, Al-Saleh’s maps and bits of paper rose abruptly into the air as Yeoman stuck down the B-26’S nose, losing height as fast as he dared. The colonel clung desperately to the arm-rests of his seat, bracing himself as the B-26 levelled out of its headlong dive a few feet above the surface of the desert, racing along with engines blaring.

  ‘Hang on,’ Yeoman shouted breathlessly. ‘We’ve got company!’

  Al-Saleh looked back, craning his neck to see through the perspex roof of the cockpit canopy, and felt a surge of fear. Arrowing down behind them, its swept wings glinting in the sun, was a MiG-15 jet fighter.

  Yeoman held the B-26 steady, heading south at full throttle, the machine juddering and creaking and groaning. Through the windscreen, the desert horizon blurred with the vibration. The pilot flew almost by pure instinct, his eyes fixed on the lethal shape that grew larger in his rear-view mirror with every passing second.

  He heard Al-Saleh shouting something at him, but took no notice. Every nerve was channelled into concentration as he strove to judge the rapidly narrowing distance between the two aircraft.

  Flashes lit up the MiG’s nose, and in that instant Yeoman acted, pulling the control column back into his right thigh and applying starboard rudder at the same time. The petrified Al-Saleh found himself suddenly looking straight down at the desert through the side window of the cockpit as the aircraft bounced up into a steep climbing turn, rolling almost on to its back, its rivets popping audibly and its overworked engines protesting with an alarming screech.

  During the Second World War, they had given the Martin B-26 Marauder the nickname of ‘Widowmaker’, and it was true that when it had first entered service in 1941 it had experienced more than its share of accidents. The problem was that it was unusually heavy for a twin-engined machine, and needed that little bit of extra care in handling. It was very manoeuvrable, however, and had excelled itself in action, particularly in the low-level role, in the hands of experienced pilots.

  The man who was in the pilot’s seat of this twelve-year-old B-26 — one of several that had found their way to the Middle East from surplus us stocks after the war — was among the most experienced to be found anywhere, and now it paid dividends.

  Taken completely by surprise by the sudden manoeuvre, the MiG pilot shot past the steeply-turning bomber, his cannon shells churning up the desert where the B-26 ought to have been. He broke away to the left, climbing, his high speed taking him far out in a broad turn as he circled for another run. Yeoman’s abrupt evasive action had brought a few seconds’ respite, no more.

  ‘Keep your eye on him,’ he yelled to Al-Saleh. ‘We can’t afford to lose contact with the bastard!’

  He rolled out of the turn and brought the B-26 down on the deck again, curving round to resume his southward dash, putting valuable distance all the time between himself and the oil complex. Every second gained an advantage, for the MiG could not pursue the B-26 for much longer; from what he knew of the performance of the Russian aircraft it must soon turn and head for its base.

  But he knew that the jet would probably have enough fuel left for another firing pass, at least, and the pilot would be unlikely to make the same mistake twice. Yeoman would need every ounce of his expertise to bring himself and Al-Saleh out of this alive.

  The MiG was turning hard, coming round on the the B-265S tail once more. Yeoman looked ahead, searching for a way out of the dilemma, his face grim with the awareness that unless some sort of miracle happened quickly, this would probably be the end of the line for himself and Al-Saleh.

  Then, rising out of the desert a couple of miles in front of him, he saw a possible means of salvation. It was a low ridge, its rocky outline softened by millenia of wind and sandstorm, almost impossible to see except by someone on the ground or flying at very low level, as he was. He glanced back quickly, noting that the MiG was now astern and in a shallow dive, closing in for the kill, and eased the B-26 down another few feet. The desert was a terrifying blur, streaking past just below the wings; behind, a miniature sandstorm billowed out, kicked up by the thundering engines.

  Yeoman had tried these tactics once before, back in the Western Desert in 1941, when his Hurricane fighter — out of ammunition — had been pursued by a Messerschmitt 109. They had worked then; he prayed fervently that they would work now.

  He risked another glance rearwards, through the dust-storm, and sensed rather than saw that the MiG pilot had also taken his aircraft down as low as he dared. The enemy fighter was obscured by the swirling dust, but it was there all right; out of the corner of his eye, Yeoman saw a burst of cannon shells explode on the ground just off his port wing-tip.

  Astern of the B-26, the MiG pilot cursed and pushed the rudder pedals gently to correct his aim, lining up the pipper of his gyro gunsight with the shadowy outline of the B-26 at the centre of the stream of dust that poured towards him. Just a little closer, to make sure … He eased open the throttle slightly, sending a surge of additional power through the MiG’s Klimov VK-2 turbojet, and his index finger tensed on the trigger of his twin 23-mm cannon.

  Suddenly, at the very instant he fired, the B-26 leaped skywards out of its self-created cloud of dust, hanging on its propellers. Startled, half blinded by the dust cloud, the MiG pilot tried to follow it, pulling back on the stick and at the same time pushing open the throttle to its fullest extent.

  For a vital second or two, the MiG’s momentum continued to carry it forward through the cloud of dust left behind by the now steeply climbing B-26. As he sped through it, the MiG pilot’s vision cleared just enou
gh for him to see the low ridge ahead. It was the last thing he ever saw, for he threw his arm over his face to blot out the inevitable. There was not even time to muster a cry of terror.

  The fighter struck the crest of the ridge tail-down, the rear fuselage breaking off aft of the cockpit with an impact that threw the pilot brutally forward in his seat and broke his neck. The remainder of the aircraft somersaulted savagely end over end for a distance, then hit the desert in a trail of blazing wreckage that spattered itself over half a mile. Smoke billowed up, thick and oily.

  Yeoman levelled out of the climb and looked back. If he had been a religious man, he would doubtless have given thanks at that point; but he was not, and anyway Al-Saleh did it for the two of them. Trembling with shock, yet jubilant with relief, the colonel turned to Yeoman and began to congratulate him on a superb piece of flying skill. The pilot cut him short.

  ‘Skill my arse,’ he muttered, his voice almost inaudible above the roar of the engines, ‘we were just lucky, that’s all. Anyhow, at least we know now that they are putting up combat patrols over the oilfield.’

  The B-26’S tortured engines were beginning to overheat, and Yeoman was forced to shut the port one down altogether a few miles north of Faraz. The subsequent asymmetric landing was tricky, but Yeoman managed it all right and brought the aircraft to a halt just off the runway. Someone could tow it in from there. He doubted whether the B-26 would ever fly again, and was sorry, for in the space of three hours he had developed something akin to affection for the elderly machine. It looked sadly wilted now, with the metal skin of its wings buckled from the indignities to which it had been subjected, and oil dripping out of various orifices.

  Shortly after Yeoman’s return the two Beverley transports arrived at Faraz, kicking up great clouds of dust with their reverse pitch as they rolled to a stop, then trundling in to their parking places, dwarfing the airport buildings with their huge bulk. The ground crews disembarked and, while some immediately set to work checking over the Venoms, others began to erect tents in an area behind the control tower. Yeoman held a short briefing with the engineer and administrative officers who had accompanied the ground crews, and then decided that, since everything now appeared to be well in hand, the time had come to pay a visit to the Sultan of Muramshir.

  Together with Al-Saleh, he was driven through the streets of Faraz by a smartly-dressed corporal of the Sultan’s Guard, who handled his Ford 21A Light Sedan as though he were on a race track, sending people and animals scattering out of his path. It was fortunate, Yeoman thought as the vehicle screeched round corners, that the streets of Faraz were wider than those of most Arab towns, or there would certainly have been casualties.

  The Sultan’s palace lay fifteen miles south of the capital, in splendid isolation on a promontory overlooking the placid waters of the Persian Gulf. It was, in fact, really a fortress, surrounded by a hexagonal wall at each angle of which stood a circular stone tower; entry to the interior was through a great wooden double gate, reinforced with bands of iron. The area inside the walls was surprisingly large — large enough, Al-Saleh informed his companion, to accommodate a three-storey building built in the style of a Roman villa around a central court yard which served as a parade-ground for the Sultan’s personal bodyguard.

  The Muramshiri corporal drove through the main gate in the outer fortress wall, pausing briefly while sentries checked the identity of the car’s occupants, then halted in the shade of a wide archway that gave access to the palace’s central courtyard. He jumped out and opened the Ford’s rear passenger door, saluting as Yeoman and Al-Saleh climbed out. Yeoman saw that a detachment of the Sultan’s Guard was drawn up in the courtyard. An officer brought them to attention and they stood ramrod-straight, unwavering as the shadows that were perfectly etched on the white ground by the afternoon sun. The officer about-turned and stood facing a flight of broad stone steps that led up to an ornamental doorway, flanked by columns of what appeared to be marble.

  A man emerged from the shadows of the doorway and came slowly down the steps towards the guard, nodding his approval. He wore a white suit and a shirt that was open at the neck; his head was bare in the scorching sun, revealing thick dark hair that glistened, as though it had been freshly oiled.

  ‘The Sultan,’ Al-Saleh whispered in Yeoman’s ear. Yeoman said nothing, but admitted surprise to himself; he had expected an elderly man, probably wearing traditional Arab dress. The man who now came towards them, hand outstretched in greeting, could not have differed more from that image. Yeoman guessed that he was not more than twenty-five years old. He looked more like a self-made millionaire than the ruler of a rather backward Arab country.

  The Sultan greeted Al-Saleh first, speaking in English, presumably out of courtesy to Yeoman.

  ‘My dear Ibrahim, how nice it is to see you.’ The accent was perfectly English, and cultured. ‘You look tired. We shall have a long talk later, and you can tell me all about what you’ve been up to during the past few days.’ He looked at Yeoman and smiled; Yeoman saluted him and smiled back.

  ‘Highness,’ Al-Saleh said, ‘may I present Wing Commander Yeoman of the Royal Air Force. His Highness, the Sultan Muhammad bin-Said.’

  Yeoman shook hands with the Sultan, whose grasp was cool and firm. The Sultan took Yeoman’s arm and steered him towards the Guard of Honour.

  ‘Better get the formalities over with,’ he murmured. ‘It’s expected, you know.’

  Feeling rather unreal, Yeoman walked with the Sultan along the ranks of the Guard, who would have done credit to Horse Guards Parade. The creases of their uniforms were knife-edged, their boots blinding. The inspection over, the salutes exchanged, the Sultan walked back up the palace steps, flanked by Yeoman and Al-Saleh. He led them into a large, cool reception room, past servants who bowed low, and invited them to sit down in chairs covered with blue velvet. Yeoman was again surprised, having had visions of being asked to sit cross-legged on cushions. Servants brought them coffee, poured expertly through a long bird-beaked pot.

  The three chatted together for a few moments, the Sultan asking Yeoman about his background and his family; it was all very polite, and there was no mention of the threat that hung over Muramshir. Yeoman grew increasingly puzzled, as the minutes dragged on, by the Sultan’s apparent lack of interest in his country’s affairs.

  Suddenly, the Sultan turned to Al-Saleh. ‘Ibrahim, my good friend, I wonder if you would mind leaving Wing Commander Yeoman and myself alone for a while; there are things I wish to discuss with him, some little things which need not concern you.’

  Al-Saleh looked a little hurt, but murmured his agreement and rose, leaving with a little bow. The Sultan, after all, was the Sultan, and therefore God’s shadow upon the earth, in the words of an ancient saying.

  The Sultan also dismissed the servants. As soon as they had gone, God’s shadow glanced at his visitor and gave a most un-Godlike grin.

  ‘Right then,’ he said. ‘How about a little drop of Scotch?’

  Yeoman was taken aback. ‘Why, thank you, sir. But I thought – ’

  ‘You thought that good followers of the Prophet don’t drink alcohol,’ the Sultan interrupted. ‘Look, let me tell you something. Apart from annual vacations, I haven’t been in this country since I was nine years old. First there was prep school in Hampshire, then Winchester, then Oxford, and very happy I was there too. Then my old man went and died, damn it, and left me with all this responsibility.’ He waved a hand at his surroundings. ‘What I really wanted to do was read European History. Small chance of that now,’ he added ruefully.

  He got up abruptly, took a key from his jacket pocket and crossed the room to a lacquered chest that stood half-hidden behind some plants in a corner. Opening it, he extracted a bottle of whisky and two glasses, into which he poured generous measures before locking the bottle away again. He returned, handed one of the glasses to Yeoman, and took a sip of his own drink, smacking his lips in satisfaction as he settled down in his chair
again.

  ‘Muramshir,’ he said, looking at the amber liquid in his glass. There was a derisive tone in his voice. He leaned forward and looked at his companion. ‘What can one do with a people who believe that every form of sickness is either the hand of God or the evil eye, who think that the cure for malaria is to apply a hot iron over the spleen and that the universal remedy for stomach disorder is to swallow a scrap of paper with words from the Koran on it?’

  Yeoman made no reply, realizing that the Sultan was speaking more to himself than to his guest. ‘Six months in this country would be an education for you, my friend, a real education,’ the Sultan continued. ‘Even in my father’s time, it was common practice for a family to sell off a daughter of ten or eleven to whatever man was rich enough to buy her, and such a man was usually elderly. You may imagine the consequences of such a “marriage”. My father, to his everlasting credit, put a stop to the practice, and in some quarters was hated for a long time because he did so.’

  The Sultan shook his head. ‘There is a small but modern hospital in Faraz, set up some time ago with funds from the United States. Its beds are empty. At first, women came furtively to it with their suffering children in search of help, but they grew afraid when several were beaten and cast out by their husbands. The consequences are everywhere to see. Walk through our villages, my English friend, and you will see children condemned to an early death by tuberculosis, girls of thirteen, shrivelled and wizened, with one child already dead of malnutrition and perhaps a third dying, children crawling about village dunghills, covered from head to foot with open dirt-filled sores and encrusted with flies. That, Wing Commander, is Muramshir in your Christian year of 1956.’

  The Sultan gave a shudder, and took another drink of whisky. ‘As far as I am concerned personally,’ he said, ‘the Khoratis can have the damned country. They might make a better job of running it than my ancestors have done.’