Cold War

Approaching Wunstorf, Kiwi was surprised by how little radio chatter came over the earphones. He’d expected the base to be very busy. He took the mic to call in. “This is Air Ambulance International 001 on approach to Wunstorf. Do you read me?”

“Air Ambulance International, reading you loud and clear. What is your destination again?”

“RAF Wunstorf.”

There was a pause.

“Do you have an emergency?”

“No, but a lot of people in Berlin do. This is an ambulance servicing Berlin.”

“Have you been cleared to Berlin?”

“Yes,” Kiwi bluffed. “The Berlin City Government has requested our services.”

“Roger. Turn right on 185.”

“Turning right onto 185.”

They landed without further incident. The skies were empty, but the airfield was wingtip-to-wingtip aircraft. There must have been fifty Dakotas and a least a dozen Yorks just sitting around idle despite being fully loaded. “Something’s wrong,” Kiwi commented generally.

“Could the weather be different in Berlin?” Ron asked, looking up at the bright skies overhead.

“Maybe,” Kiwi conceded, although he thought it unlikely based on the weather report he’d received before take-off.

The “follow-me” vehicle led them to what felt like the last available space on the taxiway. Here they cut their engines and dropped down out of the over-heated cockpit. The air was surprisingly clean because none of the aircraft parked around them had their engines running. Instead, aircrew sat around in small groups on the grass playing card games, reading magazines, or smoking as if they were on ‘readiness,’ awaiting the order to ‘scramble’. Except, this wasn’t a fighter station. These cargo crates ought to have been winging their way to Berlin.

“I’d better go and get the gen,” Kiwi declared, meaning find out what was going on. He left Ron and Chips with Moby Dick and headed for the control tower.

Mounting the stairs, he noticed lots of people sitting and standing around. Some people were typing, telephoning or manning a teleprinter, yet most were just loitering around and chatting. Very strange.

He entered the tower, and several men turned to look at him. One of them was a big, red-haired man with a moustache and the four stripes of a Group Captain. “Are you the pilot of that white elephant out there?” he burst out in an angry, Scottish voice.

“It’s an air ambulance,” Kiwi tried to explain.

“I couldn’t care less what it is! It’s not an RAF transport aircraft and it has no business on my airfield!”

“But—”

“There are no buts! Get that bloody white elephant off my airfield! Now!”

“Where should I take it?” Kiwi tried to reason with him. “I was told to come here to await further instructions.”

“I don’t give a damn what you were told by someone I don’t know! I’m in charge here, and I’m telling you to move that sodding thing, or I’ll have a bulldozer do it for you.”

“The Berlin city government has requested—”

“Well, they didn’t talk to me about it! Get out and take your bloody white elephant with you!”

Kiwi decided the Group Captain was not a man to be reasoned with and opted for retreat. Pointedly not saluting the pompous RAF commander, he turned and walked out of the tower, trying to work out what he should do now. He was grateful when he felt a gentle tap on his sleeve and a Flight Sergeant gestured with his head for him to follow. Kiwi obediently fell in behind the NCO, who led him to an office and closed the door behind him. “Sorry about that, sir. Group Captain Bagshot is a bit on edge because Gatow is closed.”

“What? Why? How?” Kiwi asked flabbergasted. “An accident?”

“No, apparently the electricity for the entire station is supplied by the Russkies, and they’ve cut off the power. Nobody knows what will happen next. Could be curtains for the whole show, you see. Anyway, it’s quite a tense situation with no leeway for an unexpected visitor, I’m afraid. If you need to get to Berlin today, you might try flying to Rhein-Main. Tempelhof is open, and the Americans are still flying in.”

“I was told to stage here awaiting orders. We only fly in when the patients are ready for evacuation,” Kiwi improvised, realising that he’d made a huge miscalculation in assuming they could just settle in here at Wunstorf.

“I don’t know what to say, sir. All RAF fields are backed up with aircraft that can’t get into Gatow. You’d probably be better off flying to a civilian field to await instructions there.”

Civilian fields cost a bloody fortune! Kiwi thought to himself. They charged you for everything except the air you breathed — and they’d charge for that too if they could work out a way to meter it. Still, they obviously weren’t welcome here. It would be better to move to somewhere less congested. “What do you suggest?”

“Hamburg, sir.”

“Can you help me file a flight plan for that?”

“Of course, sir,” the Flight Sergeant replied helpfully.