Chapter Twenty-One.

Monday, September 26th, 1949. 15.00 Hrs. GMT.

The BOAC "Plymouth class," Sandringham flying boat, G-AHZE eased away from the new floating dock of the Marine Air Terminal, Berth 50, and, with her engines idling, cruised gently out of the old dock, past the town pier, into the murky waters of the wide River Test; more familiarly known as the upper reach of Southampton Water. As she moved out towards Southampton Water proper, in preparation for her take-off run; she passed the Ocean Dock, where the mighty Cunard passenger liner, the Queen Mary; now repainted in her Company livery after her sterling service as a troop transport, whilst painted a drab navy grey... which led to her wartime nickname of "Grey Ghost;" lay alongside the quay; her boilers fired up in preparation for her next Transatlantic crossing. Charlotte Mckenna and Max Segal sat comfortably in the second cabin aft... Cabin "B" on the lower deck, watching the eastern bank drift past as the BOAC Speedbird lined up for her run down to The Solent. She indicated to Max, a small red sign screwed below the large, square window next to her seat. It read:

EMERGENCY EXIT.

TO EJECT WINDOW

GIVE A SHARP BLOW TOWARDS ONE

EDGE OF WINDOW WITH FOOT OR HAND.

She raised an eyebrow. Max grinned.

'I wonder if they give us swimming lessons first?'

She punched his shoulder; laughing,

'Thank you, Max; you really know how to put a girl's mind at ease, don't you?'

They had travelled from Hamburg's Fuhlsbüttel airfield on an RAF Dakota; the arrangements being made by Sinclair. It had been decided by Washington that, in order to preserve their identities and avoid any possible Diplomatic hitches at the Korean end of their journey; Charlotte and Max would assume the personas of American tourists, and fly from Southampton to the Far East on a regular scheduled BOAC flight. He had said that, according to enquires made with the Hamburg Harbour Master; the freighter: "Schijnt Meisje" was a twelve-thousand-tonner that would steam at about fifteen knots. Her voyage to Hong Kong would mean she would be at sea for at least thirty-two days, and would, in all likelihood, call in at Singapore on the way. There would be plenty of time to get to Hong Kong and set up an interception.

They had landed in England at a Royal Navy aerodrome named HMS Raven, located at Eastleigh; a little to the north of Southampton. After a visit to the Station M.O for a whole list of vaccinations and inoculations including small-pox, cholera, and typhoid, and the supplying of quinine tablets to guard against malaria; feeling very sore and slightly irritable, they were taken down to BOAC's new flying boat terminal with its well-appointed bar-lounge and restaurant, in a Humber Staff car driven by pretty Wren. When they arrived; she had handed them their boarding passes for the three o'clock Speedbird flight to Hong Kong.

The Sandringham was a more luxurious version of the Hythe flying boat that had flown them from Berlin to Hamburg. She was finished in the same silver livery as the Hythe, with the Union Flag on her tail fin, but had another twelve-seat cabin and a buffet and cocktail bar on her upper deck. The legend: "BOAC Speedbird" and the company insignia of a stylised bird in flight were emblazoned in blue on either side of her bow below the cockpit canopy, and the name: "Pembroke" was painted in elegant blue script directly below the captain's side window.

The purser; a middle-aged man, resplendent in his dark blue, Navy-style, BOAC uniform took their coats and placed them in the cloakroom on the starboard side, immediately to the rear of the entrance door. He checked their boarding passes and ushered them along a gently-rising, carpeted corridor to their seats. Their "Not wanted on voyage" bags were stowed in the main freight compartment and their overnight bags were taken to be held until wanted, in the freight and mail compartment aft of the rear fuselage bulkhead.

The fuselage was divided into cabins, each seating arrangement facing each other, with a table between; much like a European train compartment. Settling them in their seats on the port side of "B" cabin to the rear of the lounge, he informed them that the promenade deck was immediately aft, and contained the stairway to the upper deck cabin which held the buffet and cocktail bar forward of the staircase, and the dining area with room for eight diners to the rear. He asked if they would like something to drink. He would send the steward to them as soon as he had attended to boarding the other passengers. There was a lavatory immediately forward of "B" cabin, on the port side; and another beyond the entrance door, also on the port side. The ladies powder room was opposite, on the starboard side. He smiled again, and left them to settle down.

The whine and wheeze of an engine starter broke the quiet calm of the cabin. The port outer propeller... the one closest to the shore, began turning. Once the engine was running smoothly, the starboard outer engine was started, and the sound of the entrance door being closed and other sounds which proved to be the cable being released from the mooring buoy and wound into the bow hatch echoed through the interior of the flying boat. The same whine and wheezing came again as the two inboard engines were started. The flying boat began to move sedately away from the landing pontoon. After they were warmed up, the engines were run up two at a time, as the Captain and his co-pilot went through the safety checks. The engine noise increased to a snarling roar, and the Sandringham began to gather speed. The engine noise was gradually overcome by the rushing sound of water against the hull, and the bow wave from the hull and port float almost obscured the view until suddenly, the big boat rose up on her hull step and the ride became smooth, except for a feather of spray.

On the flight deck, Captain Peter Kincaid lined up for takeoff, and put on full opposite aileron to the float in the water; holding this until the float rose, and came free from the water's drag. Then he could use the ailerons to keep the wings level. He watched the speed building up. The wide expanse of Southampton water was calm... too calm. The BOAC Marinecraft Unit launch, which had been zigzagging down the water runway in front of the Sandringham's bow to give a little bit of choppy water to aid unsticking, had swung away towards the shore. These big flying boats needed a certain amount of choppy water to unstick. This was necessary to break the suction under the hull to get up on the planing step of the hull. He glanced across the instruments. Revs: twenty-five- hundred with six-and-a-half pounds boost. The book said he could up that to six-an- three-quarters pounds for no more than three minutes. Speed was building up slowly. Kincaid gently caressed the control column reading the boat's characteristics through his fingertips; applying a small adjustment here, a tiny correction there. It was critical that the wings were kept level. Dip a float at speed... and you would be minus that float... which would cause all sorts of trouble when you tried to alight at the other end of the flight. At sixty knots indicated she would be up onto the step. Ninety knots and it would be ease back, and lift off; then ease forward up to one-hundred-and-ten and climb away.

He felt her bow rising. At last, the old girl was up on the step! His co-pilot, Tim Walker, was calling off the figures. Eighty-five, ninety; ninety-five, one-hundred knots. She should come unglued at a hundred-and-five. Kincaid pulled back hard on the control column and felt her nose lift imperceptibly. Glancing out of the cockpit side window, he saw that the spray was clear of the inner props. OK; full power; throttle levers all the way forward, with Tim holding them there. The four rev counter needles flicked round to twenty-six fifty, and the boost gauges twitched up to six-and-three-quarters pounds. He felt the big boat slip free from the pull of the water and nodded to Tim to ease back on the throttles. The rev counter needles inched back to twenty-two, fifty and the boost gauge needles dropped back to two-and-a-half pounds as "Pembroke" rose sedately into the skies.

Speed: One-hundred-and-twenty, and climbing. He reached forward and turned the flap rotary switch to raise them before she reached one-hundred-and-twenty-five. Everything was looking good. He could hold her at this speed up to six thousand feet, and then, settle her down to her cruise speed of one-hundred-and-fifty knots at a ceiling of twelve thousand for the run across France and down the west side of Italy to their first stop at Augusta, Sicily; a distance of one thousand and seventy-three nautical miles. He called to the navigator, whose station was to the rear on the starboard side of the flight deck, opposite the radio operator.

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'OK Simon; Heading?'

His navigator, Simon Wallis called back;

One-forty-seven, point four-five-degrees South-east by south Skip'.

Peter Kincaid acknowledged and eased the control column over to starboard, watching the Direction Indicator drum rotate gently onto the correct heading. He glanced at the clock on the instrument panel. They would be landing at approximately ten o'clock, Continental time. A night landing, but not too bad; Augusta town was on an island outside the harbour proper. The flying boats landed in a large bay at the northern end of the Gulf of Augusta, in the Ionian Sea. The landing was made over Cap Santa Croce with a clear run into the bay.

Checking that the rev counters read twenty-two, fifty, and the boost was back to two-and-a-half pounds; he relaxed a little. Cylinder temperature was steady at one-ninety, as was the oil inlet temperature at eighty. Oil pressure was eighty; fuel pressure was two-and-a-half-pounds per-square-inch. Everything was reading normally. He settled the big boat into level flight and nodded to Tim Walker, who reached down to the autopilot engage lever located above the propeller pitch controls at the rear of the throttle box, and engaged "George;"... the colloquial name given to the three-axis automatic pilot, which allowed them to fly the big boat "hands-off." One last quick check to see that "George" had engaged properly; and Peter Kincaid leaned back in his seat and lit a cigarette. It was Saturday; the day was fair; the visibility was unlimited; and the pretty little waitress in the bar on the Via Catania in Augusta was only six hours away.

In "B" cabin, Charlotte and Max had settled comfortably into their seats and were surveying their surroundings. The seats were very comfortable, and were adjustable by hand levers at either side and cushioned with pneumatic pillows. Each seat had safety straps and rugs, and an adjustable table with a foot rest beneath it. The positions obtainable by pulling or pushing the seat hand levers ranged from upright, for reading and eating, to half-horizontal, which was ideal for relaxing or even sleeping. Beyond the front bulkhead of their cabin was a short passage, with the galley... which, in typically English fashion, was referred to as "the pantry," on the starboard side, next to the ladies powder room; and two washrooms/lavatories opposite. Beyond this; was the forward cabin, and purser's office, which contained the entrance/exit door, three more seats, and an iron ladder leading up to the crew flight deck.

Aft of their cabin, was the amidships promenade deck fitted with six seats on to starboard and none to port, making a space where passengers could stand and move around. The promenade deck windows were those immediately beneath the trailing edge of the port wing. From the promenade deck a circular stairway led up to the upper deck. Beyond this; towards the tail, it was up a step and through a bulkhead to the after cabin with eight seats, where the smoking area and dining room was located.

The ventilation to the cabins could be controlled by regulating small blower nozzles set at intervals along the cabin wall; below which, were switches for the individual lighting set into the cabin ceiling above each seat. The Hythe that had flown them from Berlin to Hamburg had been spacious and comfortable, but this BOAC Sandringham... although it was basically the same airframe, was in a class apart and not remotely like any of the other aeroplanes that Charlotte had ever travelled in. The interior spaciousness was undoubtedly its main attraction for the well-heeled passengers she usually carried. There was only one class of accommodation on the 'boats. The fare included hotel accommodation at night stops, all meals in flight, and meals and transfers on the ground. Throughout the flight the passengers appeared to be completely free to wander about the boat at will, and promised the sociable atmosphere one would normally expect to encounter only aboard one of the big, transatlantic liners.

As she gazed out of the cabin window; away to the left, she could make out Portsmouth Naval Dockyard with the magnificent H.M.S. Victory just visible in her dry dock, surrounded by the grey, ghostly shapes of her younger sisters... the English Royal Navy Warships. Gradually, the English coastline receded as the flying boat climbed higher. Now they were out over the English Channel, and there!... the smoky outline of the French coast just coming into view. So; this must be how it had looked to the young Luftwaffe bomber boys, struggling back to their bases, harassed and harried by the equally young Royal Air Force fighter pilots. She glanced down into the cold, grey expanse of water and gave a tiny, involuntary shiver.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of one of the stewardesses. She was a pretty girl in her early twenties, and dressed in a crisp white linen, belted dress with dark blue epaulettes, and wearing white gloves. She smiled, and asked if they would care to take afternoon tea. How quintessentially English! Charlotte and Max nodded, and the stewardess asked if they would prefer tea or coffee. They both elected to have tea. Tea was something that was rarely available in mainland Europe, even today; so they may as well indulge in the "When in Rome" game.

The stewardess disappeared forward to the pantry and returned in a few minutes with a silver tray, upon which rested a Traditional English afternoon tea consisting of a meticulously arranged selection of dainty sandwiches including, of course, thinly sliced cucumber and watercress sandwiches with the crusts cut off, scones served with clotted cream and preserves; and a tiered cake stand, upon which was elegantly arrayed a selection of cakes and pastries. These, she placed carefully on the table, which was spread with a crisp, white cotton tablecloth. She then poured their tea from a silver tea pot into delicate bone china cups, and said that dinner would be served fashionably late at eight o'clock, GMT; an hour before they arrived at Augusta. If they required anything else in the meantime; they merely needed to press the bell-push below the individual lighting switches on the cabin wall.

Feeling rather like two misbehaving children, Charlotte and Max guiltily tucked into this sumptuous array of goodies. This was, indeed a civilised way to travel, especially as the British were still subject to strict post-war rationing, and would continue to be so, for another five years.

Twenty minutes later, the stewardess returned to clear their table. She asked if the food was to their satisfaction. Charlotte smiled and nodded.

'Yes, thank you. It was delicious.'

The stewardess smiled her satisfaction, and said that if they were to step into the promenade deck they would see Paris below to port in a little over five minutes. Then, with elegant practised movements she cleared the table and returned to the pantry. Charlotte and Max moved back onto the promenade deck. There was no one in the roomy section. They stood, and watched the French countryside slipping below. The boat was flying at about twelve thousand feet. That must be the River Seine snaking across the countryside; and there!... the sprawling outer suburbs of Paris.

They watched Paris drifting below them for a while; picking out the landmarks.... The Eiffel Tower... Notre Dame... L'Arc de Triomph. Here was one of the few cities of Europe that had survived virtually undamaged by six years of occupation and war. Max turned from the window.

'Let's explore the upper deck. Would you like a drink?'

Charlotte nodded.

'Mmm, that would be nice.'

At the rear of the promenade deck was a little, enclosed spiral staircase leading to the upper deck. Max followed her up the stairway steps, which were carpeted in the same mid-blue woollen carpet as the rest of the lower deck. The stairway was narrow; with three steps, then, a ninety-degree turn; another two steps and a ninety-degree turn, and finally, three more steps to the level of the upper deck. The upper cabin contained five comfortable seats, of which, two were occupied. The first passenger was a distinguished-looking man in his mid-fifties, wearing an immaculately-tailored three-piece suit... a planter, or perhaps, a Colonial Official. The second passenger was a svelte Oriental girl in her mid-to-late twenties; sipping some elegant concoction from a well-proportioned Martini glass. The man merely glanced at them over the top of the copy of "The Times" newspaper that he was studying. The girl gave them a brief, friendly smile.

The forward section of the upper deck was occupied by the cocktail bar. A steward, immaculate in his white linen jacket stood, unhurriedly polishing glasses, whilst he waited to attend to his passengers' whims. As Charlotte and Max entered, he smiled, and indicated that they should take a seat. No standing at the bar waiting for their drinks, here! When they had settled in the comfortable seats, he emerged from behind the bar and approached.

'Madam, Sir; what may I get for you?'

Charlotte glanced at Max. He gave an imperceptible shrug. What did you drink in this sort of polite company?

She smiled up at the steward, who stood patiently awaiting their choice of drink.

'Two Manhattans please.'

The steward nodded.

'Certainly, Madam. Stirred or shaken?'

Charlotte paused, and then looked at him.

'Which would you suggest?'

The steward smiled.

'In my humble opinion, Madam; the perfect Manhattan is stirred. Shaking with ice imparts a slight froth, which can prove detrimental to a lady's lipstick.'

She smiled again.

'How very thoughtful of you. Two of those then, please.'

He nodded.

'Certainly Madam. Southern or Canadian Rye?'

'Whichever your expertise suggests.'

The steward smiled.

'Thank you, Madam. I would suggest Canadian. It imparts a more delicate character to the cocktail.'

He returned to his bar and began to pour the ingredients into a mixing glass over crushed ice cubes. As they watched, he mixed one part vermouth, made up of half white/half red, to two parts whiskey, and added a dash of Angostura bitters which he stirred well with a glass rod, then strained into two chilled Cocktail glasses, and garnished with a maraschino cherry. He returned, balancing the cocktails on a silver tray; bending as he reached their seats, so that they had merely to reach out to take the glasses.

He straightened up, and slipped the tray under his arm with a practised flourish.

'Thank you, Madam. Thank you Sir.'

And returned to the bar.

Max studied the soft-strawberry-coloured liquid, and glanced at Charlotte.

'A Manhattan?'

She smiled, and spoke softly.

'It was the swankiest American cocktail I could think of. It's rather like a proper Martini, with Whiskey instead of Gin, and a cherry in place of the olive.'