Under the Radar

by James Hamilton-Paterson

  And suddenly as if from nowhere a strange thought came to him: Maybe after all the RAF wasn’t my true ambition. Perhaps being a pilot is less my career than my way of being alone. Is that what came of reading Saint-Exupéry as a boy? Surely not the fascist-aviator so much as the seeker after majestic simplicity, the cockpit as monk’s cell from which the view in every direction is implacable splendour behind which, like Lake District clouds stuffed with peaks, lurks one’s own annihilation. Alone in that seat one could finally leave behind the wealthy and indifferent father, soar above the pompous and fatuous schools, transcend the timid former self. For wasn’t the life of a pilot monkish in its way, with peculiar laws and disciplines to be learned by heart and practised until instinctive? He had heard there was a religious order who believed that so long as there remained a single person somewhere praying for the world, the Devil could not take it over and the final victory of Evil could be staved off. So what else was deterrence about, with devout aircrews on guard at all times? Like a monk one could be called from one’s bed at 4 a.m. and be expected to go clear-headedly straight into the proper devotions. And eleven hundred miles east on the airfield outside Starobin, today’s target, equivalent Russian monks would be getting up equally clear-headedly to man the MiGs and Sukhois protecting the Minsk-A sector.

  In one respect, though, Amos felt anything but monkish. Having recently managed what the newspapers delicately called ‘conjugal relations’ with Jo, he was left with the guilty memory, impossible to suppress, of the image that had made it possible: Gavin Rickards in swimming trunks, standing in a blaze of sunlight on a rock in Cyprus three months ago, pensively watching the sea as it chirruped and glooped in the holes beneath his feet. Amos thought he had never seen anything quite as beautiful, even at school, and there seemed to be little further point in—

  ‘Help you?’ broke in a sudden gruff voice from behind. Amos jumped and hurriedly removed his hand from the Gnat’s wreckage, turning in the same movement. He found a large, belligerent-looking corporal armed with a heavy torch.

  ‘Er, no thanks, Corporal,’ Amos said. ‘I was just out for a bit of a run. Got to keep fit, really. I’m Squadron Leader McKenna.’

  The corporal relaxed visibly, looking abashed. ‘Oh, sorry, sir, I recognise you now. Excuse me, sir, we don’t get many officers down here. Well, never, as a matter of fact. Watched you last Saturday, sir, putting Waddo in their place. Brilliant, that was. And Flight Lieutenant Pilcher. Best scrum-half we’ve ever had if you ask me. Seventeen–nine: a bloody walkover that was, and Pilcher going over two minutes before time just to rub it in. Sold their man a beautiful dummy, put it across him properly, that did. I bet Waddo are having a rethink now. Get rid of half their pack, I would. They just don’t have our fitness, do they, sir?’

  Still embarrassed at having been discovered deep in a reverie in the station’s fire dump, Amos pulled himself together to meet this unexpected fan’s enthusiasm. ‘It wasn’t a bad match but it certainly didn’t feel like a walkover at the time. Once or twice they came damned close to seeing us off. That winger of theirs, Anderson, you’ve got to keep him marked every second of the game. That run of his in the first half from their twenty-five could have been fatal had Burdett not stopped him in time with only five yards to go. We were lucky. Anderson was the fastest man on the pitch, and you can’t get away from that. You just have to recognise how dangerous he is. Do you play yourself, Corporal?’

  ‘Used to, sir, up in Huddersfield. League, that was, not Union.’

  ‘Ah, rough game, but good and fast. I sometimes think it makes a better spectator sport. But I mustn’t stand gossiping. Do you have the time on you? I’ve come out without my watch.’

  ‘Yes, sir, four-twenty sir.’

  ‘I’d better be going then. When do you knock off – five?’

  Amos took his leave with a genial wave his fan returned with an awkward gesture of his own that acknowledged the gap in rank between them but also the fact that since Amos was not in uniform he didn’t have to salute him. Amos, who suddenly realised he was chilled after standing still for so long, began jogging back along the perimeter track. A good many lights had become more visible in the last half-hour, among them the red and green navigation lights of aircraft preparing to depart or being towed to a hangar. That made him think of the defective sidelight on his own Hillman Minx, and by extension to wonder what time Jo would be back in it. She had rather commandeered the thing these days. Still, if that was the price for keeping her happy and busy it was something he could live with.

  Further speculation was blotted out by the crescendo of noise as a Vulcan passed him on the runway, nose just lifting, nav lights tilting as it eased into the air and bored upwards, Olympus engines blasting massive thunder over Lincolnshire. Just able to make out the serial number on the fin, Amos wondered where Spadge Eckersley was off to and his heart suddenly lifted with the vanishing aircraft. The job was going on and it simply outweighed everything else. It was not the solemn vow he had sworn that would keep him loyal to it, but an unvoiced allegiance he felt to the very ground his feet were pounding.

  13

  Even though the new equipment now fitted to Yogis 1 and 2 had yet to be tested, its top secret status meant that the aircraft had been physically sequestered from the rest of the station’s Vulcans. Since they were no longer required to be on QRA readiness both aircraft were parked on the acre or so of hard standing beside ‘C’ hangar, out of the way of the two squadrons’ day-to-day movements. An order had gone out that they were to be guarded at all times. Surveillance was made somewhat easier since they were never in total darkness at night: the lamps that lit the apron in front of the hangar were bright enough to spill some light around the side. A similar guard had now been doubled at one of the munitions dumps over on the far side of the airfield where a dozen inert practice bombs fitted with the prototype laser-guidance nose cones had recently been delivered.

  To the station’s contingent of RAF Police who did such guarding there was nothing new about any of this. Things requiring even more careful watchkeeping than usual came and went. The Thor missiles that had once ringed the base had now been returned to America, their place taken by home-grown Bloodhound SAMs. There were still American officers at Wearsby who were required for the dual-key system mandated by the use of US nuclear warheads in British weapons, but such atomic devices were kept in a bunker separate from that of conventional munitions. From the point of view of the Snowdrops detailed off for long spells of guard duty there was little difference between securing a bomb dump and standing by two Vulcans. The more conscientious ones spent the time patrolling from one aircraft to another, or maybe sheltering from the weather beneath one while keeping a desultory eye on its neighbour.

  Corporal Brian ‘Spikey’ Caltrop was not one of the more conscientious ones. Personally, he couldn’t see the point in mounting a separate guard on two aircraft on an already well-guarded and security-conscious airfield, but there you were. You stood around at all hours of day or night, basically waiting until a Land Rover turned up with your relief. Some other poor sod from ‘B’ shift would climb out with his dog and you would take his place for a trip back to warmth via the kennels. These days poor old Air Dog Bonzo was getting stiff with either age or cold and had recently begun scrabbling and whining a bit when getting into the Land Rover with the tailgate down. This worried Spikey because old Bonze was dear to his heart: they had been together for some time now and these early signs that the dog might have to be pensioned off sooner rather than later were disquieting. Lovely dogs, Alsatians, but sooner or later the back legs went. Like my own if this goes on, Spikey thought bitterly, stamping his boots to get the blood flowing.

  He was now only ninety minutes into the shift he had pulled but already the damp cold of a December evening in Fenland had seeped into his feet and bones. He had heard that a Vulcan’s wing had the aerodynamic effect of creating a slight breeze beneath it when the aircraft was parked, and he could we
ll believe it. A series of head colds was to him irrefutable evidence that his regulation white-topped cap was quite inadequate protection against the weather. As a special dispensation he was allowed to wear a greatcoat over his blue uniform so long as he wore the ‘Mars bar’ armband on his left sleeve. Underneath he wore the white webbing belt with the holstered thirty-eight revolver which, in his humble opinion, was bloody stupid. Having to unbutton your greatcoat first hardly made for a quick draw. Not that he’d ever once had to draw his gun on duty other than at the range, unfortunately. Frankly, the prospect of having to shoot someone was by no means unwelcome. In any case he thought it was time they issued the new 9mm Browning Hi-Power automatics. Now that was a weapon that could knock the stuffing out of your average CND protester or Communist intruder.

  Such thoughts, familiar as they were, lulled Corporal Caltrop’s vigil. Against all regulations he was sitting on Yogi 2’s starboard landing gear with one leg between the tyre and Bonzo. He could feel the leaning dog’s warmth through the wool of his trousers. Truth be told, they had both fallen into a doze that was closer to suspended animation. Even the scream of a power tool and clatter of dropped equipment coming from the nearby hangar failed to keep them alert, while the occasional din of aircraft coming and going was so commonplace as to make no impression. In Spikey’s case a booze-up the previous evening had resulted in one of those nights when he found it almost impossible to sleep properly. The hangover had passed but left him feeling underslept and internally delicate. Hunched against the cold and with his back against the leg of the landing gear, he had been staring off towards the lights of the ops block, the officers’ mess and Wearsby’s various admin buildings, all of which, he knew, were warm and well supplied with hot beverages. In this mesmeric trance he might even have nodded off for a moment because a particularly loud noise in the hangar fifty yards away brought him back to life. He yawned and glanced at his watch. Jesus Christ, he thought: over another frigging hour to go.

  He eased himself to the ground and gave a gentle tug on the thick leather leash. Bonzo gave a sigh and got stiffly to his feet. Man and dog stretched and began ambling across to Yogi 1, their breath grey in the night air. The two Vulcans were parked with thirty-odd feet of space between their wing tips. Spikey Caltrop was halfway over before he took in that the aircraft’s hatch was open and the access ladder down. That was wrong. Odder still, there seemed to be no light on inside, although it was hard to be certain because the slight spillage of light from the front of the hangars reflected off the cockpit glass. Yet no sooner had he registered this than there came a series of flashes from inside that were visible in the canopy’s porthole window and the open hatchway. His first thought was of an electrical circuit shorting. Now very much awake, the corporal unbuttoned his greatcoat and also the flap of his canvas holster. Something about his level of alertness must have communicated itself to Bonzo because the dog gave a low growl that Spikey silenced with a quiet ‘Zt!’ Drawing his revolver – at last! – he took up a position to one side of the ladder and called up with his best sentry’s rasp: ‘Who goes there? Identify yourself!’

  From inside a voice said crossly, ‘It’s all right. It’s only me.’

  ‘Who’s “me”?’

  ‘Ernie Hodge, you arsehole. Who did you think it was – fucking Santa Claus?’

  A bulky shape intermittently lit by the torch it carried appeared at the head of the ladder and began descending. On reaching the ground Baldy flashed the light briefly across the corporal’s face. ‘Oh, it’s you, Spikey,’ he said. ‘Nearly gave me a bleeding heart attack.’ He pushed the ladder up until it clicked, then swung himself agilely up onto a nosewheel and pushed the yellow button in the underside of the fuselage. Irrelevantly, Caltrop noticed a small loop of slender brown cable sticking up from the side pocket of the padded jacket the crew chief was wearing. Overhead the access hatch closed with a sigh. One-handedly, Baldy felt for a key, found the lock and turned it before hopping back down. Close up, the corporal could feel the man’s intimidating animal strength. ‘Now that’s security,’ said Hodge. ‘You see this horribly expensive example of state-of-the-art Cold War weaponry?’ He flashed his torch at the expanse of the Vulcan’s underside before shining the light on the key he was holding. ‘And do you realise what sort of lock they put on it to stop people stealing it? A bleeding Morris Minor car lock, that’s what. Any average burglar could open it with a bent wire in five seconds. So it’s a good job we’ve got blokes like you standing guard, Spikey. Not that I saw you when I arrived. Intuition tells me you were dozing off under the other one over there, or am I wrong?’

  ‘I was over there but I certainly wasn’t dozing,’ said Caltrop hotly, aware that this was turning out to be an episode he would probably not include in his duty report later. ‘But who would have guessed you or anyone else would come creeping around here at all hours? You want to watch it, Hodge: it looks suspicious, not even turning the lights on. Might have got yourself shot.’

  ‘Hardly “creeping” to drive up and park in front of the hangar in plain view. I walked over, opened the aircraft and went in without so much as a challenge from you and Lassie there. I didn’t turn the lights on because I didn’t need to: I only nipped in to collect the fuelling forms I’d forgotten.’ Hodge half withdrew some folded papers from a pocket. ‘Right? In and out in two minutes. As it is I shall probably be on the mat for being late with the bumf so I’d be obliged to you, young Spikey, if you’d do me the favour of forgetting I was ever here. In return I shall do the same about your serious dereliction of duty, which I fear under Queen’s Regulations would carry the death penalty for both you and Rin Tin Tin if I reported it.’

  ‘Yes, very funny.’ The corporal holstered his gun and rebuttoned his greatcoat. ‘Come on, Bonzo,’ he said to his dog. ‘We’ve probably caught a saboteur red-handed but we’ve got to pretend it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Hardly in my own best interests to sabotage an aircraft I shall be flying in,’ retorted Baldy, walking away toward the front of the hangar where Caltrop now saw a car was parked, its paintwork misted with dew and without colour beneath the glare of the overhead lighting.

  For the next forty minutes until at last the RAF Police Land Rover came to relieve him, Spikey Caltrop pondered the episode. He thought again of the odd flashes he’d seen. Had they simply been the random gleams of a torch? He supposed so. All the same, how did a man like Baldy Hodge – renowned all over the station as a stickler for doing things by the book – not only forget some refuelling documents but come back for them at a time when he ought to have his feet up by the fire at home or be feeding his face with toad-in-the-hole in the sergeants’ mess? Another twelve hours weren’t going to make any difference. Nobody would be checking the paperwork of fuel loads in the crew chiefs’ office tonight. Oh well, he thought: just one of those minor mysteries. At this point the headlights of the Land Rover speeding towards him put everything out of his mind other than the thought of a bite to eat and getting warm again. He removed one of his white gloves, reached down and fondled the dog’s ear. ‘We’re in luck, Bonzo,’ he said. ‘It’s the relief of Mafeking.’ The reliever was Pogo Willis, who jumped out looking to Spikey’s jaundiced eye like someone with a hot meal and several tots of the right stuff inside him.

  ‘All quiet on the Western front?’ asked Willis as his own dog, a fierce animal named Mixer, bounced from the back of the vehicle.

  ‘Dead quiet. And dead cold. You’re welcome to it.’ He bent to boost Bonzo up into the back. The animal’s coat was soaked with dew. ‘Come on, old sport. Let’s get you in and dried off.’

  14

  Suddenly the two converted Vulcans were scheduled for some bombing practice using the new guidance system. The nav radars, Vic Ferrit and Julian Caddy, had been well briefed and had already spent considerable time using a simulator that introduced them to this very different method of bombing. Meanwhile, more of the bombs had been delivered to Wearsby. Their steel casings were pa
inted white. Aerodynamically, they were identical with normal 750lb bombs except that their fins had been enlarged into vanes big enough to guide the bombs once they had picked up their target. For practice purposes they were, of course, inert, being filled with nothing more dangerous than concrete. However, their snout-like nose cones were discreetly shrouded from prying eyes with sheaths made from orange canvas which the armourers were already calling ‘bomb johnnies’.

  The sortie called for each aircraft to drop six bombs from varying heights at low speed. Their objective was a squat concrete tower out on the Donna Nook bombing ranges. This was an area of gloomy tidal flats at the mouth of the Humber where V-force aircraft quite often practised. This tower, known to all as The Bosun, was no bigger than the base of a lighthouse and just as massively constructed. As much an aiming mark as an actual target, it had been built in the early 1950s when its flat top had been painted with a chequerboard of black and white squares. It would be nice to record that this design had long since been obliterated by the impacts of practice bombs, but the truth was that The Bosun had very seldom been hit. The sands around to a radius of half a mile concealed thousands of tons of ordnance while the erosion of The Bosun’s paintwork was more down to salt and seagulls’ excrement than it was to any accuracy on Bomber Command’s part.

  Even while the two Vulcans were being bombed-up one of the limitations of this newfangled laser-guidance system became obvious. Met reports were indicating a layer of cloud at three thousand feet drifting in towards the target area from the Pennines. It would probably reach Donna Nook in about three hours’ time. The general consensus was that since it was impossible to use any visual bombing system through cloud, if ever this new gadget was to impress anyone it was going to have to do so by being amazingly more accurate than the existing technique.