Cold Peace

A loud roaring shadow passed over the tower startling all the occupants. 

“We’ve just been beaten up by someone!” Natalie exclaimed more amused than upset. Kathleen suspected that was because she’d been seeing rather a lot of Benny recently.

“That didn’t sound like a Griffon engine to me!” Warrant Officer “Willie” Wilkins countered, and both he and Kathleen stood to get a better look across the runways to the grass field where the Spitfires were dispersed. 

“Fourteen,” Kathleen finished counting out loud while half a dozen pilots spilt out of the dispersal on the far side of the grass field, all searching the sky. Kathleen saw them point just before another aircraft roared overhead.

“Yanks!” Willie exclaimed.

“Yanks?” Kathleen asked back astonished.

“Not Yanks, Yaks — Soviet fighters. Look!” Willie pointed as the fighter banked to the right exposing the red stars on its wings. 

“They have no business flying in our airspace — let alone at that height,” Kathleen stated the obvious.

“Rufus, you better ask the FCO to come up here right away,” Willie ordered his assistant.

While the corporal reached for the phone and asked the operator to connect him to Simpson’s quarters, two more Soviet fighters skimmed over Gatow airfield.

The second telephone was ringing, and Natalie Vincent answered it. “Control Tower, Corporal Vincent….I’m sorry, sir, the FCO is not in the tower at the minute….I’ll hand you over to Warrant Officer Wilkins.” As she passed the receiver to the controller, she whispered, “The WingCo.”

Willie took the telephone, stiffening automatically. “Yes, sir…. We’re trying to find out, sir…. Yes, sir.” He hung up and looked at Rufus Groom. “Did you get through to the FCO?”

“Yes and no.”

“Meaning?”

“He answered but told me to go to hell.”

“Wonderful.”

“I’ll call the Berlin Air Safety Centre and see what information they have,” Kathleen volunteered.

“Good, I’ll go switch on the radar and see what I can see,” Willie disappeared inside the radar room, leaving the door open behind him.

When she had the Berlin Air Safety Centre on the line, Kathleen reported, “RAF Gatow here. Four Soviet fighters have just flown over the airfield at less than a thousand feet. Do you know what is going on?”

A French-accented voice drawled condescendingly on the other end, “Soviet aircraft are conducting manoeuvres in Berlin air space, but all aircraft will remain above ten thousand feet.”

Kathleen spluttered. She was junior to everyone in the Berlin Air Safety Centre, and she suspected they weren’t going to take her word for it, but the Yaks had barely scraped over the tower. Rather than argue, she opted to remind them instead, “The BEA flight is scheduled to arrive in—” she glanced at the clock “—less than thirty minutes.”

“We have advised BEA of the manoeuvres, but there should be no interference with the incoming flight since the Soviets are flying far above corridor height.”

Kathleen resisted the urge to say: “That’s what you think!” She knew too well that the French did not approve of women in control towers and would not believe her. She resolved to ask Willie to call them and explain the situation, but she had barely hung up when another two fighters raced by overhead no higher than the first four. She turned and called through the open door to the open radar room. “Can you see anything, Willie?”

“Anything?” Wilkins asked back. “It looks like the whole Red Air Force is crowding into Berlin airspace. It’s a flying circus!”

“What’s going on?” The question came from Wing Commander Priestman as he entered the tower.

“Berlin Air Safety Centre is reporting Soviet manoeuvres, sir, but they are allegedly all flying over ten thousand feet.”

“Ten thousand feet my — foot. They weren’t an inch over 500. Where’s Flight Lieutenant Simpson?”

“We’ve called him, sir,” Groom answered. That didn’t answer the question and the Wing Commander continued to look pointedly at the corporal until he looked down and mumbled, “He’s still in his quarters, sir.” 

The Wing Commander made a single but very pointed and unprintable comment, and then looked around the tower noting that it was manned by only two corporals and one WAAF Flight Sergeant, all of whom he dismissed as insufficiently senior. “Who’s in charge here?” 

“Warrant Officer Wilkins is on the radar, sir,” Kathleen answered, and the Station Commander immediately went into the radar room to look over Willie’s shoulder, as yet another two fighters roared overhead. She could hear the WingCo and Willie muttering to one another in low tones. Then the Wing Commander called out to her. “How far away is the BEA flight?”

“According to the flight plan, sir,” Kathleen spoke as Natalie passed her the strip of paper on which the filed flight plan was noted, “it is still 19 minutes out, roughly 40 miles from Berlin, flying at 6,000 feet.”

“Someone get me a connection to Staaken and have Corporal Borisenko report up here immediately.” 

Groom grabbed one telephone and Natalie the other, Groom requested Staaken while Natalie asked for the translator. 

Another two fighters had skimmed over the tower before Borisenko appeared in the doorway. She was handed the receiver Groom was holding as the CO ordered. “Inform Colonel Kuznetsov that our civilian airliner is on approach and scheduled to land in —” he paused to look at Kathleen.

“Sixteen minutes.”

“— sixteen minutes. I want his fighters out of my airspace!”

Borisenko spoke into the phone in Russian. She nodded several times, acknowledged in the affirmative, then covering the receiver she reported to the Station Commander. “Colonel Kuznetsov says they are not his fighters, sir. They are from a visiting squadron which escorted a VIP from Moscow and are now taking part in manoeuvres.”

“Well, tell him to get them out my airspace anyway!” Priestman snapped back.

“I don’t think he can—”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, corporal. Tell Colonel Kuznetsov what I said.”

Borisenko bit her lip in consternation but spoke firmly into the telephone. She nodded, thanked the Russian and hung up. “He said he would do what he could.”

The radiotelephone in front of Willie’s vacant seat came alive with a crackling sound followed by a voice calling, “Cutty Sark, Cutty Sark, this is Bealiner Seven-Seven. Do you read me?”

Kathleen glanced over her shoulder toward the radar room. Willie and the WingCo were again looking at the screen intently and pointing to this and that. Willie seemed to be explaining something to the Station Commander. She leaned across Groom to take hold of the radio receiver and answered, “Bealiner Seven-Seven this is Cutty Sark. We read you loud and clear.”

“We are twenty miles from Frohnau and just passing through five thousand feet.”

Kathleen glanced over her shoulder toward the radar room, but Willie and the CO were still preoccupied. “Continue descent to 3,500 feet at Frohnau.”

“Continuing descent to 3,500 feet. What’s the weather at Gatow?”

“Visibility three miles. Wind out of the NNE at 10 knots. Temperature 37 degrees Fahrenheit.” Just as Kathleen provided the barometric pressure, she felt someone come up behind her and realised the Wing Commander was standing behind her chair. She glanced up nervously, but he just nodded. As she released the radio microphone, he asked. “How far away is he now?”

“He’s nineteen miles away and eleven minutes from landing.”

“Can you handle him? I think Wilkins should remain on the radar to keep an eye on overall developments.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well done.” He returned to the radar room. Kathleen could hear Willie saying, “The Red Air Force seems to have withdrawn to the northeast but I’ve got this worrying plot down here. It could be an approach to Tempelhof from Frankfurt/Main — or a stray Russkie at God knows what height.”

The CO called into the control tower. “Can you get hold of Berlin Air Safety Centre or Tempelhof and see if they’re expecting an in-bound flight.”

“Yes, sir!” Groom reached for the telephone at once. 

“I’d also like to talk to Air Commodore Waite.”

“Yes, sir.” Natalie picked up her phone. Because her call went through first, she passed the receiver to the Station Commander.

“Sir, a squadron of Yak flew over Gatow tower at only a little over null feet. I was told by the Berlin Air Safety Centre they are taking part in manoeuvres allegedly at over ten thousand feet—” He paused as the Air Commodore spoke, nodding unconsciously. “No, the BEA airliner is on approach now.” He glanced at Kathleen as he said this.

She nodded, just as the radio crackled again. “Cutty Sark, this is Bealiner Seven-Seven. Passing Frohnau.”

“Turn right on 180 and continue your descent to 2,500 feet.”

“Turning right on 180 descending to 2,500 feet.”

When she finished speaking, the Station Commander passed the information to the Air Commodore. After a pause, while he listened, he nodded, said, “Very good, sir,” and hung up. Speaking generally, he noted, “Air Commodore Waite says the entire purpose of these manoeuvres is to intimidate us.”

“Sir?” Groom drew attention to himself.

“Yes?”

“Tempelhof is expecting an in-bound — apparently a military air transport carrying VIPs, Congressmen. It reported being ‘buzzed,’ as the Yanks say.”

“That’s intimidation all right.” The Station Commander concluded, adding, “Although, I’m not sure terrifying US Congressmen is in Stalin’s best interests.” He fell silent and then turned again to Borisenko. “Call Kuznetsov again and inform him that there are two passenger planes inbound. Ask him in my name, airman-to-airman, to clear those Yaks out of the approach corridors.”

“Yes, sir!”

While Borisenko carried out his orders, the WingCo took up a position standing directly behind Kathleen. She concluded he was here to stay until he’d seen the safe arrival of the BEA flight. 

 During the war, Kathleen had often handled returning bombers with technical difficulties or wounded on board. She found an echo of that tension as she anxiously awaited the arrival of the BEA flight.  

“Cutty Sark, this is Bealiner Seven-Seven,” the radio came to life again. “We’ve passed the Grunewald Beacon.”

“Bealiner Seven-Seven, turn right onto 260 and descend to 1,000 feet. You are making a direct visual approach on runway 26.”

“Turning right onto 260 for a direct visual approach on runway 26. Passing 1,200 feet.”

“What the devil—?” the voice was that of Flight Lieutenant Simpson but one look from the WingCo silenced him. 

The civilian airliner was in sight at last, flaps and undercarriage down as it lined up on the runway.

“Cutty Sark to Bealiner Seven-Seven, you are cleared to land on visual.” 

“Roger.” The aircraft was noticeably settling down. The nose lifted slightly, and the wide undercarriage kissed the end of the PSP runway. As the pilot gently applied the brakes, it slowed until the tail wheel dropped and the aircraft came to a gentle halt at the end of the runway. After a short pause, it decorously swung around, and Kathleen let out her breath in relief.

Behind her, the WingCo remarked to the room at large. “Well done, everyone.” Then in a clipped voice directed at the Flying Control Officer, he snapped, “Flight Lieutenant Simpson, accompany me to my office. We have something to discuss.”