by Boris Senior
I went to Czechoslovakia to initiate the ferrying to Israel of the Spitfires. The ferry operation was code-named “Velveta,” and the Israel Navy was brought into the planning. Rescue vessels were stationed in the Mediterranean to patrol the route the aircraft would use, flying from Kunevice near Uherske Radice in the eastern half of Czechoslovakia. There were no runways, and the landing area was a large grass field. This airfield’s overhaul facilities carried out repairs and final adjustments to the Spitfires after stripping them of all armament and anything not essential for flight.
As the Spitfire’s normal maximum range was 700 kilometers, and Israel is 2,500 kilometers from Czechoslovakia, a major problem arose. Sam Pomerantz, a former engineer in the U.S. Army Air Forces, and a dedicated Mahal volunteer, undertook to equip them with long-range fuel tanks under the wings. The only fuel tanks available were drop tanks from Messerschmitts, so Sam headed a team in Prague, which set to work modifying the Spits to take the Messerschmitt’s tanks. He designed and equipped the tanks with a feed system to enable the pilot to pump fuel from the extra tanks into the standard tank under the belly of the aircraft. He then installed small pumps for operation by the pilot during the flight. Gauges screwed into the right wall of the cockpit indicated the fuel quantity left in the slipper tank underneath the aircraft. As the level dropped, the pilot operated the pump, transferring the fuel. The British designers of the legendary Spitfire with its glorious history in World War II would have turned over in their graves if they had seen us in their beloved Spits cruising blithely over the Mediterranean with a Messerschmitt tank under each wing. Even with this extended range, however, we couldn’t reach Israel nonstop from Kunevice, so an intermediate refueling stop was essential.
As there was no other country along the direct route that would permit us to fly over it, let alone to refuel, we negotiated an agreement with Yugoslavia to refuel in their country. At that time Marshal Tito had severed ties with the Soviets, and as there was as yet no contact with the Western powers, the Yugoslav Air Force couldn’t get aviation-grade fuel from either the Russians or the West. Israel undertook to provide the Yugoslavs with aviation fuel, and in return, they granted the Israel Air Force a refueling base on the long flight to Israel.
A base codenamed “Yoram” was set up on a dried lake at Nikši near Titograd in Montenegro. We were briefed that, in case of a forced-landing, we were to contact the UDBA (Yugoslav Gestapo) and ask for Gedda (an Israeli pilot formerly in the RAF). Gedda Shochat, a powerfully built, hearty member of Kibbutz Kfar Gileadi in northern Israel, was the man responsible for our contacts with the Yugoslavs. He was the one who saw to the equipping of the airfield for us. After arrival, the Spits were to refuel and continue over the Greek Peloponnese to the Mediterranean and on to Israel.
As such a long-range flight had never been attempted before in a Spitfire, an Israel Air Force four-engine DC-4 Sky-master crew would navigate and lead the fighters. An experienced South African volunteer navigator was chosen for the Skymaster. He was to calculate the fuel remaining in each Spitfire, instruct the pilots by radio as to their exact position, and tell them if they were going to make it or should turn back.
Six of us were to fly this first batch of Spitfires. Overhaul of the aircraft and checking the Messerschmitt-tank additions took weeks. One evening, after returning from dinner in one of the few restaurants in the area, we found the female manager of our hotel standing at the front entrance awaiting us and sobbing. Two men were standing next to her wearing long, black leather overcoats. They were from the secret police.
They wanted to know who we were and what we were doing there. They insisted on coming upstairs with us to examine our rooms and belongings. They gestured to us to open our suitcases and poked among our belongings. We were incensed and demanded identification. They seemed to be surprised at our demand, obviously not having been questioned in the past. They turned up the collars of their black leather coats to reveal Czech secret police badges. Matters looked dire for us when they found our revolvers, issued by the Israeli embassy in Prague.
Obviously, they had not been informed we were persona grata as far as their government was concerned. The end of the incident came quickly when, at our insistence, they telephoned their bosses, who told them what we were doing in Kunevice. The panic and tears of our host gave us an idea of what life was like under a communist regime.
One of our six pilots was Tuksie Blau, a young South African I had recruited with the first batch of volunteers. He had little experience on advanced fighters, so I arranged for him to undergo a conversion course on Spitfires at Kunevice, and he managed it well. After the work on the Spitfires ended, we took off one early morning on a cloudless day in August departing in the six aircraft in fine style. We flew in loose formation from Czechoslovakia over Hungary to the Adriatic coast. I found it odd to be flying behind the Iron Curtain over one communist country after the other in Israel Air Force Spitfires.
The weather had been fair when we took off, but shortly after passing over Hungary, we ran into clouds. None of us had instrument ratings, there were no navigational aids, and after some time we had to break formation, with each pilot making for the field on his own. We reached Yoram in three hours and found the unmarked field in spite of the bad weather. I was the first to land, and I taxied my Spit toward a group of tents near a river on the west side of the stony dry field. Tuksie was following me, but forgot to lower his undercarriage and landed on the Spitfire’s belly. He was uninjured but the Spit was a write-off. That meant one down and five to go.
I was particularly upset by the crash, for the Operations Department in Tel Aviv had sent Arnie Ruch, an experienced South African Spitfire pilot to fly the sixth Spit. I had insisted that Tuksie fly it for he had passed the conversion course on to Spitfires successfully. Moreover, he had been waiting around for weeks, bored stiff by the inactivity. I had no doubt that he would manage the flight to Israel in company with the rest of us, but I am still bothered about my poor judgment.
The airfield at Yoram was in an exposed location surrounded by mountains and bounded on one side by a fast-flowing river. Apart from tents and a shack with a radio transceiver, there was nothing. We slept in tents on the desolate airfield, washed in the icy river nearby, and our food was mostly in tins from Israel. We were constantly under the watchful eyes of Yugoslavian soldiers, who did not allow any of us to leave the field. Every day, the soldiers sat on the ground in a circle under a Yugoslavian flag listening to an officer, who stood in the middle with a book in his hand. As we had no contact with these soldiers, it was anyone’s guess as to whether these lectures were for general education or communist dogma.
After spending a week sitting around in the tents without a radio or news of the war in Israel, the C-54 appeared, made a few circuits to check the field, and then made a bumpy landing. Shortly after the landing, we received a radio message from Israel forecasting good weather en route. Soon we took off in the five Spitfires led by the Sky-master. We climbed to 8,000 feet in loose formation, three aircraft on one side of the Skymaster and two on the other. We flew in fine weather past Albania, over the Greek Peloponnese, to the Mediterranean. Soon the Greek islands appeared in the blue sea with the mountains of Turkey to port.
The beauty of the Mediterranean and the Greek islands belied the tension we felt in our cramped cockpits while keeping the fuel gauges under constant scrutiny. Navigation was the responsibility of the Skymaster’s navigator, who worked in the ideal conditions of a large aircraft with his navigation computer and radio link with Israel. We left it to him to worry about how much fuel we had left and whether it was enough for us to reach Israel.
Communication with the Skymaster was by VHF radio. The navigator in the lead aircraft constantly monitored our fuel consumption, getting radio reports from each of us as our slipper tanks ran dry. When the slipper tank ran completely dry and caused the engine to cut, we were to tell him so he could calculate our fuel consumption and decide whether our
fuel reserve was sufficient for the remainder of the flight.
Using the last drop of fuel in our slipper tank before switching over to the main tanks in the wings meant a short period of fuel starvation. This method was a bit risky for there was a possibility that we would be unable to restart the engine after it cut, but we had no choice. Still acutely aware of what had happened to me in Venice, I made sure of my buoyancy in case I had to ditch or bale out over the sea by wearing two Mae West life jackets.
Between the islands of Rhodes and Cyprus, I saw the Spitfire of my mate Moddie Alon, who was on the left of the Skymaster, turn sharply and lose height. A few seconds later, Moddie announced his slipper tank was empty and his engine had cut. He got it started again, but, almost immediately, I heard the navigator telling Moddie that he did not have enough fuel to complete the flight to Israel. Moddie made a 180-degree turn and headed back toward Rhodes in the direction from which we had come. I continued to keep my eye anxiously on the makeshift fuel gauge on the right cockpit wall and worried about what was in store for Moddie.
Not two minutes later my engine cut too. I turned sharply over to the left into a dive and headed back while restarting my engine. The Skymaster navigator confirmed that I did not have enough fuel either. I told Moddie to form on me and we headed back toward Rhodes.
After thirty minutes, worrying about the fate awaiting us, we reached the island. I searched for an airfield and made out two fields, Lindos in the south and a larger one near the city of Rhodes. Not having been briefed on details of either field, I chose the larger one and landed with Moddie behind me. We taxied to the control tower.
IN A GREEK PRISON
A Greek Air Force officer approached me from the tower and asked what we wanted. I said in my most innocent manner, “We are short of fuel. Please ask the Shell agent to come and refuel our aircraft. I have cash with me.” Within a few minutes he reappeared, not with the Shell agent but with a squad of airmen armed with rifles. Thus ended the second leg of our flight to Israel.
We were taken under guard to the Greek military headquarters in Rhodes and put in separate rooms with an armed guard outside each door. The isolation soon began to weigh heavily on me for I had nothing to read and there was no one to talk to. My requests to see Moddie were refused. The interrogation was headed by the base commander, Captain Vutsinas.
“Where did you come from? Why were you flying fighter aircraft with Israel Air Force markings and no cannons in the wings, and what do you want in Rhodes?”
I kept steadfastly to our story that we had set out from Israel on a long-range sea patrol and had run short of fuel. It is not difficult to understand the suspicions of the Greek commander and his intelligence officer, who was also present at the interrogations. Moddie was casually dressed in jeans, I was wearing a pair of brown corduroys with a sizeable tear in the seat, and I had a macho beard. I had a revolver in a holster around my waist and not one, but two bright, yellow life jackets. Worst of all was my South African passport with my real name and an Israeli identity card. It was in the name of Daniel Anan (Anan is a cloud in Hebrew) stamped with a communist Czechoslovakian visa. Profession: travel agent, which I chose at the time in a humorous vein. All this did not amuse the Greeks who began waking me at odd hours of the night for questioning.
The Greek Air Force officers had been scrupulously correct during their questioning. The men in dark suits who appeared at all hours of the night were members of the civilian counterintelligence and were of a different stamp. At that time in 1948, the Greek government was engaged in a bitter struggle with the Greek communist rebels led by General Markos. The rebel forces continually crossed over the border from Albania and Yugoslavia where they got their support. The Greeks told me they had found a map in my aircraft with a penciled-in course line running from Yugoslavia across Albania and the Greek Peloponnese, and on toward Rhodes.
The men in the black suits became more and more forceful, and when I kept to my story, they became exasperated and threatened to shoot me for being a communist. My protestations that I was not a communist—unlikely for someone from a wealthy background in Johannesburg—were to no avail. Realizing that the situation had become hopeless, the solitude and lack of communication with anyone began to affect me. Here I was, incarcerated in a prison in a strange country, not knowing the language, cut off from any contact with my people, and in fear of being shot.
After three nights of being woken up at all hours of the night for interrogation, I had a brainstorm. I remembered the friendship I had struck up with the Greek Air Force officer in the train overnight between Salisbury in Rhodesia and Johannesburg some five years before. Relying on the hope that George Lagodimus had survived the war in Europe, I told the Greeks about my meeting with George, whom I had invited to my home. I was not at all sure if he was alive or could be found, but I hoped he would remember our meeting in South Africa years ago. The Greek officers seemed puzzled but said nothing.
To my great surprise, a few hours later the door to my room was opened by the armed guard and in walked George Lagodimus wearing the uniform of a squadron leader in the Greek Air Force. As luck would have it, George had indeed survived the war and was still in the Greek Air Force. They had sent an aircraft to Athens to bring him to Rhodes.
When George walked in I said, “Hullo, George, do you remember me?” Then came his shocking answer. “I am sorry but I don’t know who you are.” My scruffy appearance and the thick beard had misled him completely. I could not blame him, for our last meeting was on the other side of the world in South Africa years before I had even started flying and there had been no mention of Israel. After explanations on my part, reminders of our meeting and the visit to my home, George finally seemed to remember. He listened to my tale but, not believing our story of the patrol from Israel, told me to tell the truth and he left.
I did not see him again, and when I inquired about him a year or two later, I heard that he was among the officers who had supported King Constantine in his failed coup d’état, and he had been discharged from the air force. Captain Vutsinas was also involved, and I later heard he committed suicide after the failure of the coup.
During the interrogation, they kept on telling me that Moddie had broken down under questioning and had told the truth, and that we had indeed come from Yugoslavia. I became deeply upset when they told me he had been released and was back in Israel. I felt lost and angry with Moddie, whom I felt had betrayed me. Later, I found out that they had used the same trick on Moddie, but he knew they were not telling the truth. He had been placed in a cell between my cell and the kitchen, and, seeing that there was always another plate of food when his was brought to him, he had realized I was still there.
After five days of interrogation in Rhodes, I was flown in a Greek Air Force Dakota to Athens and was put in a cell in an air force police station in a suburb of the city. Again, Moddie was the lucky one. He again noted the two plates of food at mealtimes and guessed that I was still there, too.
During the questioning by the Greek Air Force, they asked me if I wished to see the South African consul in Athens. I refused their offer, for my activities were not on behalf of South Africa, and I did not wish to be an embarrassment to them.
Time weighed heavily on me in my solitary confinement. Besides the boredom, I knew that even without my Spitfire I was badly needed in Israel. I made chess figures from bits of paper and tried to play chess with myself. This lasted for a few hours, but I gave up after a short time. Except for washing, I was not allowed out of my cell and had no exercise. My mood deteriorated from day to day for I saw no possibility of my release.
The Greek army guards were stationed in the next room, and they played backgammon loudly all night long with little consideration for their prisoner next door. I shouted to them to keep quiet, but they paid no attention. Food consisted of Greek army rations, an unending flow of beans or some other vegetable covered in a meat sauce. The guards allowed me to go down occasionally into a freez
ing cellar where there were primitive cold-water washing facilities, and I rubbed myself down with my handkerchief.
After nearly two weeks, they told us we were both being released but would not be allowed to go to Israel because the United Nations had an embargo on the movement of men of military age to Israel. Moddie and I had an emotional reunion, hugging one another. We brought each other up-to-date on what had happened during the weeks of our solitary confinement.
Awaiting us outside the police station was a representative of Israel, George Georgiou, a Christian Greek born in Jerusalem. After throwing in his lot with the Jews, he had been appointed by Israel as liaison officer to the Greek government. Georgiou was a great help, and he and I became close friends. Years later in Israel, he turned to me for help in trying to save a failing industrial concern he had set up in Macedonia, and I was able to show my gratitude by arranging a bank guarantee for him. He now lives in England, and we are in contact to this day.
Contact was established with the Jewish community of Athens who showered us with gifts of clothing from one of the shops owned by Jews. Probably to celebrate our return to freedom, we both chose bright red pajamas and proceeded directly from the prison to the best hotel in Athens, the Grande Bretagne.
As we walked the streets of Athens, people pointed at us and seemed to know the whole story, probably from the press and radio. I must have been easy to identify with my beard and casual clothing. The Greek government seemed unable to figure out exactly who we were and why we were flying those unarmed Spitfires into Greek airspace.
The Greek Air Force confiscated our two Spitfires and later used them in their civil war against the forces of General Markos. One was lost in combat, and the remaining one was eventually returned to Israel—too late to be used in the war. Our release was on the condition that we abided by the UN regulation and did not depart for Israel. After some days a Pan African Air Charter aircraft arrived in Athens on its way to Israel. I went to the airport and persuaded the captain to take us. We boarded the aircraft and landed some three hours later in Haifa.
