Cold War

Kit welcomed the distraction because he could use something practical to do just now. He’d spent the afternoon filling out an elaborate and lengthy application form for a job. After being turned down for scores of engineering jobs over the last six months, his wife Georgina had talked him into responding to an advertisement from Ethiopian Airlines soliciting applications from pilots, flight engineers and ground crew. It was as much Georgina’s enthusiasm as his own frustration that had induced him to respond. Georgina had been depressed ever since she’d been forced out of her beloved teaching profession because English schools would not employ mothers. Georgina had been told it was different in Africa, and that she would have no trouble finding a teaching job in Ethiopia. Kit, however, had discovered that the Ethiopians, with their 2,000-year history, maintained an arcane bureaucracy. He had never encountered anything quite like this application form before — not even in the RAF. It was 20 pages long and included lengthy questions about his family, his religion, his education and, of course, his experience.

Kit took the tool kit out of the boot of his father-in-law’s car and put it down on the ground. Then he lay down on his back and squirmed his way under the tailgate with a torch, which he directed towards the brakes. As he conducted the inspection, he was asking himself how he was supposed to answer the question, “When was the last time you flew an aircraft?”

Did he admit to flying without a license with Leonard Cheshire in a Mossie that the Group Captain might — or might not — still have owned? Or did he omit that flight (which he had not dared record in his logbook) and say that the last time he’d flown he’d crash-landed, breaking the aircraft into three pieces and leaving his flight engineer crippled for life while crushing his left foot under the instrument panel so completely that they had to cut it off to extract him before the fuel tanks exploded?

Which brought him to the question of the medical exam. In addition to the application form, Ethiopian Airlines had sent a five-page “Medical Questionnaire” to be completed “by the applicant’s attending physician.” Aside from the fact that he didn’t have a particular physician, what were the Ethiopians likely to do with, “Missing left foot and half of lower left leg.” He knew he could fly with his artificial limb, but why should Ethiopian Airlines believe him? And why would any doctor pass him fit to fly —

“Kit! Kit!” It was the urgent voice of his father-in-law.

The reverend’s tone was so alarmed that Kit pushed himself back out from under the car fearing some sort of calamity. Had his daughter Donna had an accident? Or Georgina? Reddings was gesturing to him from the back door, signalling him to come. “It’s a telephone call for you!”

Kit pushed himself off the ground, using his flesh-and-bones foot, and wiped the dirt off his palms on the already dirty thighs of the overalls as he hastened to the house. “Who is it?” he asked his father-in-law, who stood holding the door open for him.

“A Mr Goldman calling from London about a job interview!” Reddings exclaimed flustered. He knew how hard Kit had been looking for jobs these past six months.

Puzzled, Kit frowned slightly. He couldn’t remember the name Goldman, but there might well have been a Goldman among the scores of personnel chiefs to whom he’d sent his many letters of inquiry. He took up the telephone receiver and spoke into the handset, “Good afternoon. This is Christopher Moran.”

“David Goldman,” came the crisp answer. “I’m the Managing Director of Air Ambulance International based in Berlin, Germany. His Majesty’s Government has decided to contract civilian airliners on the Berlin Airlift. My company is looking into options for adding air freight to our ongoing ambulance operations. If we go ahead, we will need to employ pilots with four-engine ratings and experience. You were recommended to us by Assistant Section Officer Hart as a possible captain.” Kathleen! Kit thought, noting that she had been promoted. On the other end of the line, the unfamiliar voice continued. “I’m calling to see, first, if you would be interested in what, due to the nature of the work, must be a temporary position only, and if so, if you could come to an interview at the Savoy Hotel in London tomorrow or Friday.” At last the clipped voice paused long enough to allow Kit to answer.

Kit’s pulse was racing. He was being offered a chance to fly the Airlift! The day the British government had announced their intention to supply the city by air, he had told his father-in-law that he wished he could be part of it. Reddings, ever the optimist, had told him he thought he would be. Kit had not believed him. He’d been invalided out of the RAF and had seen no possible way to become part of this military operation. Now, out of the blue, things had changed. Civilians were being given a chance to fly. He could hardly breathe for fear he might say something to spoil his chances. He tried to keep his voice neutral as he replied: “The answer to both questions, sir, is yes. However, I’m currently in Yorkshire. I’m not sure about train connections, so Friday afternoon would be better.”

“Excellent. The interview will be with our Director of Personnel, Mrs Emily Priestman, who will be able to provide you with additional details. She says…” Goldman covered the phone with his hand and his voice became muffled. Then his voice came clear and loud again as he announced, “Mrs Priestman would have time for you at 4 pm. In the tearoom. Is that all right?”

“Yes, sir. That’s fine. How will I recognise her?”

“Mrs Priestman will be wearing our black and red uniform. You should have no difficulty finding and identifying her. Please bring your logbook and licences to the interview.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you have any other questions?”

“No, I’ll save them up for the interview.”

“Excellent. Good evening, then.”

“Good evening.”

The telephone connection went dead, replaced by the dialling tone.

Dazed, Kit replaced the receiver and turned to find his father-in-law anxiously watching from the back door and Georgina peering at him from the stairs. “Kit?” she asked.

“I’ve got a job interview in London on Friday at 4 pm. I’ll have to—”

“Congratulations!” Georgina and her father exclaimed simultaneously, Georgina jumping off the stairs to run into his arms while her father came forward to shake his hand.

“Ethiopian Airlines?” Georgina asked eagerly.

“No. It’s an outfit called ‘Air Ambulance International’ based in Berlin and interested in flying cargo on the Airlift.” He admitted the latter with a sheepish grin in the direction of his father-in-law.

“Didn’t I tell you this would happen? It is your destiny!” Reddings declared triumphantly, his whole face beaming with delight.

“Calm down, both of you,” Kit admonished. “All I have is an interview — not a job.”