I turned back through the pines and struck away to the left, to the railway sidings that had been built out to the very edge of the landing field. A long line of fuel wagons was being shunted in, fuel that we should carry to Berlin. The place was bleak and desolate. The country beyond rolled away into the distance, an endless vista of agriculture, without hedges or trees. Something of the character of the people seemed inherent in that landscape — inevitable, ruthless and without surprise. I turned, and across the railway sidings I caught a glimpse of the wings of a four-engined freighter — symbol of the British occupation of Germany. It seemed suddenly insignificant against the immensity of that rolling plain.
We were briefed by the officer in charge of Operations at nine o’clock the following morning. By ten we were out on the perimeter track waiting in a long queue of planes, waiting our turn with engines switched off to save petrol. Harcourt had been very insistent about that. ‘It’s all right for the R.A.F.,’ he had said. ‘The taxpayer foots their petrol bill. We’re under charter at so much per flight. Fly on two engines whenever possible. Cut your engines out when waiting for take-off.’ It made me realise how much Saeton had to gain by the extra thrust of those two engines and their lower fuel consumption.
The thought of Saeton reminded me of the thing I’d promised to do. I wished it could have been this first flight. I wanted to get it over. But it had to be a night flight. I glanced at Tubby. He was sitting in the second pilot’s seat, the earphones of his flying helmet making his face seem broader, his eyes fixed on the instrument panel. If only I could have had a different engineer. It wasn’t going to be easy to convince him.
The last plane ahead of us swung into position, engines revving. As it roared off up the runway the voice of Control crackled in my earphones. ‘Okay, Two-five-two. You’re dear to line up now. Take off right away.’ Perhaps it was as well to fly in daylight first, I thought, as I taxied to the runway end and swung the machine into position.
We took off dead on time at 10.18. For almost three-quarters of an hour we flew north-east making for the entry to the northern approach corridor for Berlin. ‘Corridor beacon coming up now,” Field told me over the inter-com. ‘Turn on to 100 degrees. Time 11.01. We’re minus thirty seconds.’ That meant we were thirty seconds behind schedule. The whole thing was worked on split-second timing. Landing margin was only ninety seconds either side of touch-down timing. If you didn’t make it inside the margin you just had to overshoot and return to base. The schedule was fixed by timings over radar beacons at the start and finish of the air corridor that spanned the Russian Zone. Fixed heights ensured that there were no accidents in the air. We were flying Angels three-five — height 3,500 feet. Twenty miles from Frohnau beacon Westrop reported to Gatow Airway.
As we approached Berlin I began to have a sense of excitement. I hadn’t been over Berlin since 1945. I’d been on night raids then. I wondered what it would look like in daylight. Tubby seemed to feel it, too. He kept op looking down through his side window and moving restlessly in hi? seat. I pushed my helmet back and shouted to him. ‘Have you seen Berlin from the air since the war?’
He nodded abstractedly. ‘I was on transport work.’
‘Then what are you so excited about?’ I asked.
He hesitated. Then he smiled — it was an eager, boyish smile. ‘Diana’s at Gatow. She’s working in the
Malcolm Club there. She doesn’t know I’m on the airlift.’ He grinned. ‘I’m going to surprise her.’
Westrop’s voice sounded in my earphones, reporting to Gatow Airway that we were over Frohnau beacon. We switched to contact with Traffic Control, Gatow. ‘Okay, Two-five-two. Report again at Lancaster House.’ So Diana was at Gatow. It suddenly made the place seem friendly, almost ordinary. It would be nice to see Diana again. And then I was looking out of my side window at a bomb-pocked countryside that merged into miles of roofless, shattered buildings. There were great flat gaps in the city, but mostly the streets were still visible, bordered by the empty shells of buildings. From the air it seemed as though hardly a house had a roof. We were passing over the area that the Russians had fought through. Nothing seemed to have been done about it. It might have happened yesterday instead of four years ago.
Over the centre of the city Field gave me my new course and Westrop reported to Gatow Tower, who answered, ‘Okay, Two-five-two. Report at two miles. You’re Number Three in the pattern.’ There was less damage here. I caught a glimpse of the Olympic stadium and then the pine trees of the Grunewald district were coming up to meet me as I descended steeply. Havel Lake opened out, the flat sheet of water across which the last survivors from the Fuhrer Bunker had tried to escape, and Westrop reported again. ‘Clear to land, Two-five-two,’ came the voice of Gatow Control. ‘Keep rolling after touchdown. There’s a York close behind you.’
I lowered undercarriage and landing flaps. We skimmed the trees and then we were over a cleared strip of woods dotted with the posts of the night landing beacons with the whole circle of Gatow Airport opening up and the pierced steel runway rising to meet us. I levelled out at the edge of the field. The wheels bumped once, then we were on the ground, the machine jolting over the runway sections. I kept rolling to the runway end, braked and swung left to the offloading platform.
Gatow was a disappointment after Wunstorf. It seemed much smaller and much less active. There were only five aircraft on the apron. Yet this field handled more traffic than either Tempelhof in the American Sector or Tegel in the French. As I taxied across the apron I saw the York behind me land and two Army lorries manned by a German labour team, still in their field grey, nosed out to meet it. I went on, past the line of Nissen huts that bordered the apron, towards the hangars. Two Tudor tankers were already at Piccadilly Circus, the circular standing for fuel off-loading. I swung into position by a vacant pipe. By the time we had switched off and got out of our seats the fuselage door was open and a British soldier was connecting a pipeline to our fuel tanks.
‘Where’s the Malcolm Club?’ Tubby asked Field. His voice trembled slightly.
‘It’s one of those Nissen huts over there,’ Field answered, pointing to the off-loading apron. He turned to me. ‘Know what the Army call this?’ He waved his hands towards the circular standing. ‘Remember they called the cross-Channel pipeline PLUTO? Well, this one’s called PLUME — Pipeline-under-mother-earth. Not bad, eh? It runs the fuel down to Havel where it’s shipped into Berlin by barge. Saves fuel on transport.’
We were crossing the edge of the apron now, walking along the line of Nissen huts. The first two were full of Germans. ‘Jerry labour organisation,’ Field explained.
‘What about the tower?’ I asked. Above the third Nissen hut was a high scaffolding with a lookout. It was like a workman’s hut on stilts.
‘That’s the control tower for the off-loading platform. All this is run by the Army — it’s what they call a FASO. Forward Airfield Supply Organisation. Here’s the Malcolm Club.’ A blue board with R.A.F. roundel faced us. ‘Better hurry if you want some coffee.’
Tubby hesitated. ‘She may not be on duty,’ he murmured.
‘We’ll soon see,’ I said and took his arm.
Inside the hut the air was warm and smelt of fresh-made cakes. A fire glowed red in an Army-type stove. The place was full of smoke and the sound of voices. There were about four aircrews there, in a huddle by the counter. I saw Diana immediately. She was in the middle of the group, her hand on the arm of an American Control officer, laughing happily, her face turned up to his.