The Hidden War

by David Fiddimore

  Anyway; that’s half the story of how the Pink Pig flew into legend. She flew into the northern corridor of the Berlin Airlift not long after it started, and forgot to come out the other end. Just like the Ninth Legion marching across the Scottish border into oblivion and history.

  Peter Dare blasted along the corridor that morning at very low level, after receiving permission from a sympathetic wing commander. He set the fastest transit time along the corridor ever recorded, upset an awful lot of Russians, saw absolutely no trace of the Pig, and came back with a bit of pine tree jammed in his port engine intake. By mid-morning we’d probably managed to nudge the temperature of the Cold War up a degree or two. Halton, of course, was his usual detached self. I put it down to that hacking cough. It always gave him time to think before he spoke. It wasn’t a good telephone connection: the line crackled as if it was alive.

  ‘The War Office has indemnified us, Charlie. They’ll replace it with one of their own Dakotas.’ I thought, but didn’t say, What about our bloody people?

  ‘Then make sure you get a good one, boss, and this time, whatever you do, don’t paint it. If they think it belongs to the RAF they might leave us alone.’

  ‘This time I shall agree with you, Charlie, but never rely on it. Speak again when you have some news.’

  Neither of us had mentioned Louis ‘Max’ Maxwell the Third, or Red Ronson. Criticize me if you will, but that’s just the way it was. What do they say? Easy come, easy go. That was Max all over.

  I think that you’ll understand why I was depressed when I strapped into the Hastings that was to take me and Bozey Borland to Berlin that afternoon. That old wartime question had come back to haunt me: Was it ever bloody worth it?

  PART THREE

  The Air Bridge

  Chapter Seventeen

  Russian Greg was out of town. I wondered if he was poking around in the bones of the Pink Pig, or had just disappeared for a week because he couldn’t face me because of it. The Brits weren’t saying much, and a call I put through to the Americans at Tempelhof didn’t exactly start a bush fire. So I ended up in the Leihhaus for a couple of days.

  When I’d told the Old Man I was flying out to Germany he hadn’t said anything else about Frieda. Neither did I, so I left without her. In my opinion Berlin hadn’t been a place for a woman for years . . . too many people dropped bombs on it. I became sorry when Magda walked into the Leihhaus with a cheap brown paper envelope she’d picked up from the BFPO post office at Gatow when she came off duty from the hotdog and doughnut machine. It was addressed to me. It had been opened.

  Magda asked, ‘Who’s Frieda?’

  ‘Did you open this?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s Frieda?’

  ‘Do you always open other people’s mail?’

  ‘Not always. Don’t you ever say thank you to people who deliver it? We do in my country.’

  ‘Thank you, Magda.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. Who’s Frieda?’

  ‘I think that she’s my boss’s bit of fluff. She’s German and wants to find her relations. I was supposed to bring her here with me, but deliberately forgot. I may be in for a bollocking when I get back.’

  I dropped a transport manager five dollars to borrow his jeep, and picked up Frieda on the Gatow apron. Randall taxied the drab Oxford up to the admin blocks. I could see that he had applied black registration markings to it now, but they were so small that you needed a microscope to read them with. As I helped Frieda down from the door, a gust of wind lifted her dark blue dress around her waist, and a passing squaddie whistled. She was like that I think – without meaning to, she attracted attention wherever she went. Despite an antagonism I felt towards her I couldn’t understand, I thought that she had nice little pins. Her stockings alone were worth as much as a Berliner’s weekly pay. I smoothed her dress down instinctively, and she said, ‘Thank you, Charlie.’

  She rested her hand on my shoulder as she stepped down from the aircraft. I felt as if she was scalding me with her touch.

  ‘No problem. Welcome to Germany.’

  ‘Welcome home, you mean.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so. Do you want me to fix you up at one of the British clubs, or do you have somewhere to stay?’

  ‘I have Geoffrey’s flat. It’s not far from here. I’ll give you the address.’ Geoffrey was Geoffrey Halton of course. Was there anyone on the make who hadn’t helped themselves to a little bit of Germany? Randall appeared at the Oxford’s door and handed me down her small suitcase and a plain raincoat.

  ‘Decent trip?’ I asked him.

  ‘Company could not have been better.’ For a moment I thought he was going to blush. Frieda smiled. She liked compliments. She took her case and coat from me, and sat in the passenger seat of the jeep. I tarried a moment. Randall asked, ‘Where’s my Countess?’

  ‘She’s just finished a stint on the Doughnut Wagon, and then she’s going over to the Leihhaus to wait for you.’

  ‘I may get there first. Where’s Scroton?’

  ‘He left for Lübeck an hour ago. You’ve got two days before he gets back.’

  ‘I’m heading back tomorrow.’

  That was the first bit of good news I’d had all week. There were three soldiers and a Customs guy crowded around Frieda, chatting her up, when I joined her. One of them gave me a dirty look as I slid behind the wheel of the jeep. I was right; she was going to be trouble. As I pulled away I asked her, ‘Tell me where you want to go.’

  She directed me to a broad avenue of huge houses in our zone, curiously almost untouched by the war: I might have guessed. Her apartment was an entire first floor of the largest. There was a concierge, and a gardener was busy converting a sweeping lawn into a vegetable patch. The whole set-up telegraphed money: I might have guessed that as well. I left her as quickly as I decently could – after she’d explained that a Russian squad had been billeted there, and it had taken a month to clear up after them: they’d used every room as a toilet before they left, and had decorated the walls with revolutionary slogans, and women’s underwear. I saw little evidence of either now. The place rivalled Greg’s in the East.

  There was one moment I will remember. She sat in a two-hundred-year-old chair, framed by the light from a massive window behind her, erect and with her legs crossed. That had the effect of emphasizing her top hamper. They actually didn’t need any emphasizing: maybe I’ve told you that before. She took a cigarette from her small leather shoulder bag, and waited for me to light it for her. I obliged without thinking. She glanced to the right where a small table with an ashtray was just out of her reach. I moved them for her. She smiled and blew out a thin stream of rich smoke. She knew that she’d created an image I would never forget.

  ‘I will try not to make too many difficulties for you, Charlie.’

  ‘But you will create some?’

  ‘Probably . . .’

  Her chair was on a small Persian rug, on polished boards. She deliberately flicked the ash from her cigarette on to it. I asked, ‘Will madam require anything else before I go?’

  ‘No, Charlie. I will send for you when I want you.’

  No pleases. No thankyous. She didn’t even ask where I hung out. I could see that this was going to be a trial of strength.

  As I pulled away from the place I noticed that there was an unusual mix of uniforms and civilians strolling in the avenue with none of the usual Berlin sense of urgency or deprivation . . . and that there was an armed police patrol parked up at the end. Whoever these bastards were, they had protection. That was interesting.

  I handed back the jeep and sloped over to the club: Greg was back in all his pint-sized glory. I told him, ‘If I’m going to be around for a while I’m going to have to fix up some transport.’

  ‘I know. I called Tommo. He’s going to stop over with something for you.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was in town.’

  ‘Neither did he.’ Now what the hell did that mean?

  Randall was already there w
ith his feet stretched under the table, and an enormous jug of light beer before him. I asked him, ‘What did you make of your passenger?’

  ‘I’m passionately in love with her, Charlie. Love will never be the same again.’

  ‘You mean you . . . ?’

  ‘No; don’t be an a-hole. Just wishful thinking: she’s way outta my class, but sensational, ain’t she?’ I liked the way that he couldn’t actually bring himself to use the word in everyday conversation.

  ‘What about Magda?’

  ‘Who’s Magda?’

  Well, that solved that one I suppose.

  Magda came in an hour later. She had taken some trouble to tart herself up for him, so she was pretty put out to find Randall treating her like a least favourite sister.

  Marthe was in the kitchen, and didn’t come out immediately. When she did it was only to plant a small peck on my cheek and retreat again. The buses had definitely stopped running for me this week. I’d filled a small pack for her in the store at Wunstorf, and although she clucked appreciatively over it I slept on my own on the sofa that night. Quite like old times. Lottie came out to see me before she went to sleep. She had a long thick nightdress, and her hair was in two braids. She was clutching the rag doll to her, but gave me a peck – just like her mother had – and squeezed my hand. She looked sorry for me. There were no street lights so I didn’t bother to close the curtain. I curled up on the settee and watched the black window, whilst I made up my mind to get a place of my own. If I could find somewhere close to Gatow with enough space, the boys could bunk down there between trips as well. I didn’t ask Marthe why the honeymoon was over; I wasn’t sure I’d want to know the answer.

  This is the second part of the Pig’s story: how she flew back into history again.

  I had mourned the Pig for three days, when the bastard thing turned up again. You’ll often find her today in a footnote to books on the Bermuda Triangle, or on alleged timeslips. It didn’t actually happen that way. The loonies say that she flew into the northern corridor during the Berlin Airlift, and flew out three days later, and nobody knows what happened to her and her crew in between. That’s not exactly true either. I do; and so does anyone who was there at the time. The problem is that I suppose that there aren’t that many of us left.

  I was mooching around on the apron, making a nuisance of myself, when an erk hurried up and used almost exactly the same words.

  ‘Mr Bassett, sir? The Duty Officer’s compliments, and would you care to join him, sir?’

  ‘Have I just lost another aircraft?’

  ‘I don’t believe so, sir . . . if you’d care to follow me?’ I knew where the bloody man was, but the erk was only doing his job.

  Déjà vu prevailed. The Duty Officer, an overweight overpaid French Letter, said, ‘Fancy a cup of cocoa, Mr Bassett?’

  It was mid-afternoon of a summer’s day, but in Control it was cool.

  ‘Thanks. What’s up?’

  ‘One of your aircraft just turned up from nowhere, and slotted in between a couple of incoming Yorks. I’ve had to stretch out the train to get a decently safe separation. I thought you’d like to be present when I give your buggers a bollocking. Saves me repeating it to you.’

  This was not going to be my week, but I could see his point. Absolute adherence to the discipline of separation between the incoming and outgoing aircraft at the Airlift airfields was the key to the operation. The Air Traffic Control you see at Schipol or Heathrow today began there. They played the verbal interchange between the tower and the aircraft over the speakers, and as soon as I heard the pilot’s voice I turned away and found a chair.

  The DO asked, ‘Anything wrong?’

  ‘That pilot was killed three days ago.’

  ‘He doesn’t sound very dead to me.’

  ‘Nor me. What’s the little sod been doing?’

  I saw him reach for a dark blue telephone handset that stood on its own. ‘Who are you calling?’

  ‘The Regiment. I think we’d better keep them away from the motley until we know what’s going on, don’t you?’

  They wouldn’t let me see them for a couple of hours; but I had a look at the Pig to see if she offered any clues. On the outside were some scrapes and small dents and a few dark green streaks on the wing leading edges. Peter Dare wandered over. I said to him, ‘I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t thank you properly for going out to look for this lot three days ago.’

  ‘’s all right, squire. Thought I’d have a gander at what I was supposed to find.’ Then he laughed. ‘You couldn’t really miss her, could you? I definitely didn’t see anything like this. Why did you paint her that horrible shade of pink?’

  ‘My boss ran out of red paint.’

  That made him laugh even more. He told me, ‘Do you know that the Cousins are using exactly that shade for high visibility on some of their reconnaissance jobs? B-29s flying over the North Pole and that sort of thing. I bet the Reds are worried about you.’

  That put a different complexion on it: I wish someone had told me before. We climbed up inside, but it wasn’t long before we were turfed out by an RAF technical team. I pointed out that it was my aircraft, not theirs. Their surly warrant officer responded, ‘It’s been in the hands of the Reds, sir. It’s ours until we’ve established that they haven’t planted a bomb in it, or engaged in other nefarious acts of sabotage. Then you may have it back.’ Prat.

  We were in it long enough to notice one thing: the Russians, or whoever had had the old cow, had nicked her pilot’s seat. Max had flown home on an old wicker basket chair – the sort you see in hotel sun lounges – strapped in place with what looked like a number of leather belts.

  ‘I wonder what they wanted with that,’ I mused.

  ‘It’s a relatively late mark of Dakota,’ Dare pointed out. ‘Perhaps the seat’s more comfortable than the ones they have.’ He clearly thought it amusing. ‘Shall we grab a cup of coffee? The doughnut wagon has just pulled up over there, and they have a cracking bit of old Jerry in the back.’

  That would have lifted Magda’s morale. Maybe I should introduce them. The last thing he said was, ‘Those streaks and dents, especially around the wing tips . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d say he flew her a tad close to some pine trees, wouldn’t you? My speciality you see . . .’ If anyone knew that then he did.

  Max and Ronson found me in the station Mess bar we were allowed to use. It was starting to bustle because Gatow was taking in a dozen flights an hour, and launching as many. Max bleated, ‘Sanctuary, sanctuary . . .’ and flopped into an easy chair alongside me. Red slouched into an upright one, looking over Max’s shoulder.

  ‘Did you two try to fly the Pig through a forest?’ I asked them.

  Ronson said, ‘Down a firebreak for about ten mile. The bastards boxed us in.’

  ‘What bastards? Russians?’

  ‘I’m not sure, boss, but they were speaking German all the time they were with us. Pretty good flyers; the only space they left us was into the ground. One on either side, and one above. They were flying Russian Sturmoviks, anyway.’

  ‘They lifted us out of the stream as neat as a dollar.’ That was Max. ‘Forced me down into a firebreak in a forest of enormous black pines. There was an old airfield at the end of it . . . probably a training base because it was grass.’

  ‘It could have been anything,’ I told him. ‘Most of their airfields were either grass or bits of autobahn by the end of the war. You landed there?’

  ‘They made their intentions abundantly clear; they shot at us whenever I turned a way they didn’t like.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘They separated us, and marched us away. Lots of Kraut jubilation going on. I never saw Red again until they put us back in the ship.’

  ‘They interrogate you?’

  ‘Sort of; but half-hearted. During the day I was locked away in a beat-up hangar where they were working on the Pig. Now and again they would come back and ask
me something. They weren’t interested in me, they wanted the Pig. They turned her inside out.’

  ‘What were they after?’

  ‘Her radio. They said they wanted the special radio. They pulled the radio out. Then they got angry and put it back again. I didn’t understand it.’

  The Pink Pig, like most of our aircraft, could now fly without a radio operator if it had to, but I didn’t think that our kit was sophisticated enough to make anyone jealous.

  ‘What were they like when they’d put it all back together?’

  ‘You’re right. They were a bit subdued. They left the seat out though.’

  ‘Where were you kept at night?’

  ‘In a bunker they were also using as a horse stall. The damned thing stood on me during the night. After that I had to be careful.’

  ‘Feed you?’

  ‘They fed me. It was crap food, but they ate it themselves. Then some very small bigwig comes in with more medals than uniform and gives them all a dressing down in front of me, turns to me and tells me in good American that I am free to go, and apologizes for the mistake.’

  ‘Mistake?’

  ‘That’s what the man said.’

  ‘What happened to Red?’ I shouldn’t have referred to him in the third; I should have asked him myself.

  ‘Dunno. He won’t tell me. He won’t tell you either. He won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Is that right?’ I asked Ronson. He nodded guardedly. ‘They interrogate you?’ He nodded again, and held out his hands, palm upwards. The palms were covered with small circular cigarette burns; particularly the soft fold of flesh between each thumb and forefinger. I asked, ‘That wasn’t about a radio, was it?’ It was no good; he pointedly looked away.