Cold War

Emily opened with her prepared remarks. “Flight Lieutenant, first I’d like to thank you for taking the time to come to London and talk to me. We are aware that, since no one knows how long the Berlin Airlift will last, taking a job ‘for the duration’ is an uncertain proposition. We might find things are over before we get started, or we might be flying the Airlift for months. So, my first question is whether that is a problem for you?”

“Since I’m currently unemployed, no, it’s not.”

“Excellent. Now another issue is that our operations will be based in Germany, at an RAF station near Hamburg. I see you are married with a small daughter. Are you sure you don’t mind operating from Germany?”

“No, not at all,” he assured her. “My wife is very supportive of my application. She plans to stay with her parents while I work abroad.”

“Good. Then why don’t you tell me a little more about your flying career and why you are interested in this job?” Emily sat back to listen.

“When I heard about the Berlin Airlift, I felt it was what I had to do — or at least what I wanted to do,” he answered earnestly.

“Why is that?” Emily asked surprised. All the other candidates had responded to the same question by listing their accomplishments — the flying hours, the different aircraft they’d flown, the number of ops, the medals. None had got around to addressing the question of why they wanted the job.

Moran shrugged. He was sitting with his elbows resting on his knees and his eyes were fixed on his feet. Then he lifted his head and looked her in the eye. “When I crashed my Lancaster in Germany, soldiers from the Wehrmacht pulled me and my flight engineer to safety before the cockpit was consumed by flames. A Wehrmacht doctor reconstructed my eye socket, put my ribs and hip back together, and saved what was left of my leg. None of that gainsays that the Nazis were tyrants involved in genocide. Nor does the fact that Germans saved my life make me ashamed of the 48 earlier ops I’d flown, during which I contributed to pulverising German industry and collaterally destroyed many homes and lives. I don’t regret what I did in the war, but when I heard about the Airlift, I thought it would be — I don’t know — a way that I could help build a bridge beyond the hatred and the destruction and mutual suspicion that still exists in the heart of Europe.”

Emily felt chastened and humbled. David talked in terms of business opportunities, and she, too, had thought of freight as a means to save AAI. None of the other four bomber pilots she’d interviewed over the last two days had so much as hinted at such motives. This answer reminded her that Gibson hadn’t been the only CO of 617; Leonard Cheshire had commanded the squadron for longer, and he was a passionate proponent of peace. Realising that Fl/Lt Moran was anxiously awaiting her response, she admitted, “That was the best answer to why anyone could want this job that I’ve heard in two days of interviews. Well said. Which only leaves the question of your flying experience.”

Moran again shrugged and looked down at his feet before facing her. “I joined the RAF as a fitter.” That surprised Emily. While she knew that many men had come up through the ranks in the RAF, most of them retained their working-class accents and often a certain cheekiness that came from bucking class prejudices to get to the top. Moran, on the other hand, spoke with a cultured accent more common among the elite. It was starting as a fitter, not ending as a flight lieutenant, that didn’t seem to match. He continued, “After volunteering for aircrew, I trained as a flight engineer and flew 30 ops with 626 Squadron during my first tour and six with 103 Squadron in my second tour before…” he hesitated and then continued, “I was recommended for flying training, and—”

“Excuse me,” Emily interrupted him. “But wasn’t it unusual to be recommended for training in the middle of a tour?”

Moran drew a deep breath, but he did not get flustered. “On that 36^th op, four of the crew were severely wounded, the skipper mortally so. As a result, the crew was being broken up anyway. Because we made a good landing despite my skipper’s condition, the RAF thought I had potential as a pilot.”

“Yes, I can understand that. Please go on.”

“I was sent to South Africa for the early stages of training and returned to England to finish up. The CO of the Lancaster Finishing School, the last non-operational posting, recommended me for 617 Squadron and I was accepted.”

“You went to 617 straight out of training?” Emily asked, surprised. “Wasn’t that unusual too?”

“Yes, but it was early 1945 and several of the veteran skippers had been forced to retire. The new CO wanted ‘fresh blood’ untainted by the culture of other squadrons. It probably helped that I had a DFM already. Ultimately, however, I only flew twelve complete ops as skipper, plus a gardening op from the OTU, a Second Dicky flight to the Tirpitz and a boomerang over Norway. I’m sure you can find many pilots with more flying hours than I have.”

He might be overdoing the modesty a bit, but Emily preferred that to the line-shooting of the other candidates. Out loud she admitted candidly, “Flying hours aren’t the only criterion for this job.”

“What else are you looking for?” he asked with an edge to his voice that was almost resentful — as if he’d encountered hidden criteria with negative results before.

“Flying the airlift requires precise flying — something that 617 was famous for, of course,” Emily hastily added, embarrassed for even mentioning it to this candidate, “but the real challenge I think is that as a company we are not in a position to recruit other crew members. We are relying upon the skippers to pull together their own crew.”

Unlike the others, Moran looked relieved rather than annoyed. “I’m glad to hear that because I’d rather form a crew through mutual consent than be assigned to a crew. How much time do I have to find the others?”