Rufus passes the map down to the professor, who peers at it in the light of the flashlight. “That explains the smoke I saw from the river bank. There’s an iron foundry in the town. Kamensk looks quite a large settlement, which would explain why they wanted to deliver a batch of leaflets here.”
Rufus is still looking in the cockpit. “Ah! Here’s the bigger map, and the flight log! The plane has come from a place called Orenburg. It’s five hundred miles away, and it’s got an airfield and fuel supplies. I’ll fly us there.”
Axelson looks grave. “To the best of my knowledge, Orenburg is south-west of here. Those areas are, I believe, mostly controlled by the Bolsheviks. What if Orenburg is the Bolshevik base those men were talking about?”
“But the plane, which belonged to the White Army, came from Orenburg. So unless the Reds have taken it over recently, Orenburg airfield will be fine.” I can sense the frustration in Rufus’s voice at Axelson’s doubts. But the professor carries on.
“I’m not so sure. I think it would be safer to fly south-east, towards China.”
“We’ve got no maps of that area! And, it’s almost uninhabited. It will be nothing but forests, deserts and mountains for a thousand miles. We’ll end up with nowhere to refuel, or even to land.”
“Yes – you have a point. Without a map and a known refuelling place, it may not be wise to head for China. But we are asking for trouble if we fly to Orenburg. If the Bolsheviks are in control there, they will have received reports of the stolen plane.”
“Will they have received a report? Think of the chain of command, Prof. First, one of the guards at this airfield has to wake up. Okay, the noise of the plane taking off will probably wake them. But then, they have to see that the airplane is gone, then send a telegram. And then someone in Orenburg has to pick up the telegram, then alert the airfield… all in the middle of the night. So if we get to Orenburg at dawn, we’ll be ahead of news of the plane being stolen. We simply refuel and go on our way.”
Axelson is still pondering. “You make it sound easy, Mr du Pavey.”
I look at the professor. “We have a map showing Orenburg. And we know it’s within range of the airplane’s fuel.”
Rufus points at the plane’s fuselage. “Look. Our Bolshevik friends at this airfield have given us a helping hand. If they do happen to be in control of Orenburg, and if this aircraft lands and ask for fuel, they will give it to us. Look at that.”
He shines the flashlight along the side of the plane, and we see fresh paint. The guards have decorated it with the crude emblems of the hammer and sickle.
Axelson nods in agreement. It’s a makeshift plan, but we all know it’s the best we can do. Rufus climbs up into the cockpit, and the professor and I go over to the hangar doors; they are not locked. Each door is on wheels, but even so, they are huge. Every muscle in my body aches as I slowly push the right-hand door open, and the professor is equally slow with the left-hand door. But in the end we manage it. We go back to the airplane, and Axelson up looks anxiously at Rufus.
“Opening those doors was hard work for us. How on earth will Miss Agnes and I push this plane out of the hangar?”
Rufus’s confidence is growing. “No need to push it, Prof! I’ll fire up the engines now, and each of you give the propellers a turn. Be carefuclass="underline" as soon as you feel them moving, step right away from them. Then climb up the rope ladder into your seat. I’ll taxi the plane out of the hangar, onto the airfield and take off. Just leave it all to me. If I do ask you to do anything during the flight, I’ll shout loud and clear. This is going to be noisy.”
I look up at his goggled face in the cockpit, and remember my last flight, also with Rufus. But this airplane is a giant by comparison: two massive engines sit either side of the fuselage, and rather than the flimsy bench I sat on then, recesses in the fuselage hold five seats; one at the front for the pilot, then behind it, two pairs of two side-by-side seats. I remember Rufus’ idea of an ‘air-line’. He was right, I realise. With an airplane like this, you could carry passengers across the globe, as long as you have places to refuel en route.
Rufus fires up the engines, and the professor and I each take hold of a blade of one of the propellers. We swing them with all our strength.
There’s a roar. The propeller blade pulls viciously from my grasp, and I step away from it: I can feel the suction of the air into the scything blades. I look across: Axelson’s propeller is turning too.
The professor and I are at the rope ladder; he gestures to me. “Ladies first!” I climb the few rungs and clamber down into the pit-like seat behind Rufus, sliding over to make room beside me for the professor.
Rufus turns his head to us, and grins.
“Here we go.”
As I strap the goggles around my head, I feel the forward movement, and I see the dim light of the night sky. We are slowly lumbering out of the hanger; the plane is crawling, inch by inch, like a snail. The noise is deafening: surely it must wake the guards?
But within seconds, the plane is rumbling along on the lumpy grass of the airfield, and I begin to sense the acceleration in my stomach. I glance over to the office; it’s dark. Our escape is very loud, but so far, it is going unnoticed.
Ahead, the darkened airfield stretches for maybe a mile to a dim line of trees. I can feel the surging power of the engines. We are already pulling away from the ground, angling upwards into the sky. I feel the lift of the wings: we’re airborne.
The wind rushes past us as we climb; ahead, a pale moon shines fitfully behind clouds. Below us, it illuminates a dark cloak of forest spreading in all directions. The thin black line of the Stone Gates canyon, and the smoke rising from the Kamensk foundry chimney, are tiny landmarks in the endless space of Siberia.
The dawn is coming up behind us. We’re flying into a strong headwind that buffets my goggles, but I can see tiny lights on the ground far ahead of us. The rising sun’s rays are being reflected from spots on the vast dark plain; they look like droplets of liquid gold. Axelson shouts.
“Those must be the golden domes of the church in Orenburg! Where’s the airfield?”
Rufus yells back. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it all perfectly under control. Look there!”
We see a long green shape, a cleared grassy area among woodland. In minutes, the field looms ahead of us, and we feel a massive bump.
“We’re down!” Rufus is ecstatic, turning to grin at us. The plane shakes and bounces along the field, but I’m amazed how quickly we slow to a halt, the propellers lazily rotating and stopping. Rufus looks around, then speaks quietly.
“Now for the tricky part.”
Four figures are coming out of an office at the side of the airfield. In the low-angled early morning light, their shadows are like long black fingers on the grass. The light illuminates their uniforms; we can see that their collars and cuffs are crimson. They walk over to the airplane, and look up at us.
“Greetings, Comrades!” Rufus waves down at them, then flings down the ladder, climbs down and shakes their hands as he begins his explanation. “We’re en route to Moscow, but it’s a long way. We need to refuel.”
The men all stare at him, without speaking. Then one of them says “All of you, please. Climb down from the airplane.”
One by one, we descend the rope ladder. It’s only when all three of us are standing on the ground that one of the men begins to talk.
“This airplane is the one that was reported stolen. We’ve had a telegram from the Red Guards in Kamensk, to say that someone took it away in the night.”
Rufus tries a nervous smile at the man. “Yes, this is that plane. But we’ve not stolen it. There must be a misunderstanding. What did the telegram say?”