Cold War

It was his first day on the job. The first time he’d reported to work in more than three years. The first time he was going to work since he’d crashed in a Lancaster and been dragged out with a broken back. To say that Gordon was nervous was an understatement.

The trip to Berlin had been easy. The first leg had been almost like old times with Moran at the controls and the wheelchair (against all regulations) jammed against the flight engineer’s station. They’d all been a bit slap-happy finding themselves in a flying job together again, and Gordon had to admit that Red Forrester’s younger brother Bruce was a marvellous addition to the team. Unlike his loud-mouthed, competitive elder brother, Bruce was soft-spoken and modest, with a sense of humour so dry they often didn’t get his jokes the first time around. Not at all what one expected of an Australian. They ended up singing songs together as they had done after picking up Gee over the North Sea on the way home from an op.

In Hamburg, Gordon transferred to Moby Dick. He was less happy flying with “strange” pilots (i.e. Kiwi and Mrs Priestman) but the Wellington’s conversion to an ambulance included winches for wheelchairs and a special slot facing fore-and-aft for it to sit while in flight. Once on the ground, they had been met, much to Gordon’s embarrassment, by Mrs Priestman’s husband, a Wing Commander and Station Commander, who welcomed him to Berlin. “I’ve heard a great deal about you,” he said as Gordon fidgeted uncomfortably, wanting to salute or at least stand but unable to do either.

He was happy when Mrs Bell, who ran the Malcolm Club at Gatow, took over, rolling him to his “quarters” on the ground floor of the club. These were rooms intended for aircrew forced to overnight at Gatow unexpectedly due to weather or technical issues. However, AAI had arranged for one single room to be assigned to Gordon permanently. The Malcolm Club staff made him feel welcome, and his call home to Maisy had been full of positive news and good feelings.

After dropping Gordon in Berlin, Kiwi flew the ambulance back to Hamburg for servicing at the maintenance centre one last time before the transfer to Berlin. Gordon had been given the weekend to “settle in,” but he spent most of it out in the AAI hangar, which was one of the older and more dilapidated structures dating back from before the war. Based on the pictures and technical manuals still lying about, it had last been used for Ju52s. Gordon used the weekend to clean out drawers, take an inventory of tools, and get the place as “ship-shape” as he was able. One thing he couldn’t do, however, was clean the windows, and they were filthy. He realised they would need more artificial lighting installed and resolved to mention this to Mr Goldman at the first opportunity.

Today the ground crew would report for work for the first time. They were all ex-Luftwaffe, he’d been told, but that didn’t bother him so much as the fact that he was in a wheelchair. He presumed they’d been warned about it, but he felt strange — like when he couldn’t stand up for the WingCo or had to have help with his bath at the Malcolm Club. Somehow, being an invalid hadn’t been so bad when he was just a pensioner…

“Moby Dick” was scheduled to fly in around 8 am to collect six patients bound for Munich, so the ground crew had been told to report no later than seven am. Gordon was to show the crew the “quick check” procedures, confirming that all was well or responding to any concerns reported by the pilots. When Moby Dick took off, Gordon planned to introduce the ground crew to the engine manuals he’d brought with him and to show them where the tools were, etc.. If they had time, he’d put them to work washing the windows, but not until Moby Dick had made her second run of the day would the work truly begin. That was when they were to conduct the Daily Inspection (DI) to ensure she was fully serviceable to fly the next morning.

Unable to sleep, Gordon got up at 6 am, had coffee and a bun at the Malcolm Club, then rolled himself over to the hangar to wait for the Germans. He was glad he’d gone over ahead of schedule because the Germans arrived almost twenty minutes early. They came through the wide door nattering away in German. Although they’d removed all insignia, by the colour and cut of their overalls it was obvious they were wearing Luftwaffe uniforms. For a second, Gordon felt a flash of resentment. Then they spotted him, fell silent and stood to attention.

Gordon rolled forward and in his nervousness forgot to say even “hello,” greeting them instead with, “Can any of you lot speak English?”

“Yes, sir!” one of the young men answered eagerly, clicking his heels together smartly. “I am Helmut Greis, sir. I speak a little English.” His English was surprisingly fluent. Not at all the way Germans spoke English in the films.

“Well, that’s a good start,” Gordon agreed. “And who are your friends?”

“Axel Voigt.” Gries indicated an intense-looking man with thinning hair. “Voigt is the most experienced man among us. He was a Stabsfeldwebel, a sergeant major, Ludwig Winterfeld and I were Oberfeldwebel, master sergeants.”

This longer speech revealed Gries’ American accent, a fact that grated on Gordon’s Scottish nerves. Gordon growled back, “The RAF doesn’t have master sergeants — that’s an American rank, or sergeant majors either. That’s an army rank. Where did you learn your English? In America?”

Gries eagerness burst like a balloon, and he looked deflated, while Gordon’s tone had produced a look of resentment on Voigt’s face and wary uncertainty on Winterfeld’s. They were not getting off to the best start, Gordon registered. He ploughed ahead just the same. “Right. Well, I’m MacDonald. You can call me ‘Chiefy.’”

“Chichi?” Gries asked, not quite hearing him.

“No, ChieFy — with an F,” Gordon corrected.

“Fifi?” Gries tried again.

“You make it sound like I’m some sort of bloody Chihuahua!” Gordon snarled. “It can’t be all that difficult: Chi-Fi. Chi-Fi —”

Humiliated, Gries looked down at his shoes and fell silent. The other two men exchanged a look and then glared sullenly at Gordon. The set of Voigt’s jaw was almost insolent. No, this was not going well at all. Gordon tried again. “So, what aircraft have you serviced?”

Gries respectfully deferred to Voigt, who answered with a list of aircraft which made it clear Voigt had no multi-engine experience at all. Gordon was beginning to wonder what the hell he was doing here. Fortunately, the other two had serviced just about every conventional aircraft the Luftwaffe had had. Next, he asked about engines, and at once wished he hadn’t. They listed what seemed like dozens of Junkers, Daimler-Benz, and BMW engines of various marks, none of which meant anything to him. Gordon was starting to feel lost and hot. He reached up and undid the top button of his overalls.

Abruptly, the Tannoy in the hangar clicked on. “AAI ground crew! AAI ground crew! Your aircraft has landed.”

The three Germans broke into excited chatter, temporarily forgetting the animosity and frustration that had been building up. Meanwhile, Gordon rolled his wheelchair to the front of the hangar to look across the busy airfield. When he caught sight of the distinctive white aircraft moving sedately in their direction, he pointed and called out, “There she is!”

Taken by surprise, Gries answered, “I’m sorry, FiFi — I mean ChiChi—”

Abruptly, the humour of it hit Gordon. He broke into a loud guffaw and when his laughter died away, he advised, “Forget it, Gries. Just call me ‘Mac’ or ‘Boss.’ Whatever you prefer. Now come over here.”

Warily, Gries moved up beside him with the other two men in his wake. Gordon pointed: “That white elephant out there is our aircraft. It’s a Wellington, a medium bomber, with two Hercules Mark VI engines. You’re not going to have any trouble with them, her — or me,” he added significantly looking over at Gries and offering his hand.

Gries smiled, and taking his hand answered in his best American, “OK, MacBoss! We’ll be a good team. Promise!”