Lord God Made Them All (37 page)

The two farmers were soon ready for action, jackets off, sleeves rolled up. Noel grinned at me as he flexed his muscles after the long night of inactivity. “Where are the wagons?” he asked.

It was a good question. Where indeed were they? They should have been awaiting our arrival, but I scanned the airfield in vain. Karl went over to the buildings to make enquiries but returned looking despondent.

“Nobody knows,” he said. “We wait.”

So we waited as the sun beat on the concrete and the sweat trickled inside our shirts. It was over an hour later when the wagons rolled up.

Just then, the captain’s tall form hovered over me. “Mr. Her-riot.” The grave eyes looked down, and he ran a finger over his beard. Again I felt the impact of a masterful personality. “Mr. Herriot, there are a few things I must do. I have to see about getting that engine repaired and there is the hotel accommodation to arrange. I am leaving now and I rely on you to supervise things here.”

“Okay,” I replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll see that the animals are all right.”

He nodded slowly. “Good, good.” Then he swept the two farmers with his unsmiling gaze. “And that goes for you chaps, too. I don’t want any of you to leave this spot until the last cow has been taken away. You do understand me?”

We mumbled our assent. I don’t suppose many people would have tried to argue with Captain Birch. Anyway, the mention of the hotel had lit a cheerful spark in me as I remembered John Crooks’s description of his five-star opulence. I am not attracted by continual luxury, but I do like a little bit now and again. Especially now. I was hot and sweaty and very hungry. The sandwiches at Catwick were only a hazy memory, and the thought of a bath and a good meal was idyllic. I wanted the unloading to be as quick as possible.

The farmers seemed to have the same idea because they already had the first batch of heifers on the hoist. Little Karl pulled a lever, there was a long, high-pitched whine, but nothing happened. He operated the lever again with the same result.

“The hoist, she is jammed,” he said and began to fiddle about with switches and other parts of the mechanism. Finally he dealt the shining metal a vicious kick. He shrugged his shoulders and looked at us. “Is no good. I have to get electrician.”

He ambled off to the airport buildings, and the three of us were left looking at each other in some dismay. It was getting hotter by the minute.

It was half-past ten before he returned with a man in white overalls who appeared determined to take the hoist to pieces. He muttered and exclaimed in Turkish all the time, and I just hoped he knew his business because he was taking an age to find the cause of the trouble. Finally, after an hour and a half, the hoist answered to the pull on the lever and began to move. But we had lost a lot of time.

Meanwhile, it was reassuring to see a party of mechanics working on the damaged engine. I hoped even more fervently that they knew their stuff.

As Noel and Joe leaped into action and commenced the unloading, a party of Turkish vets arrived to inspect the animals. They were a most impressive group—handsome, olive-skinned men in smart light-weight suits, much more prosperous-looking than the average British vet. Only one of them spoke English, but he did so almost without accent.

“Beautiful creatures, Mr. Herriot,” he murmured as the first cattle were ushered up the ramp into the wagons. The other vets, too, clucked their appreciation, and I felt personally proud that Britain could still lead the world in this field. So many countries had to turn to our green pastures to find livestock to improve their own strains.

The head man explained that they were all government vets from the Turkish Ministry of Agriculture, and their job was to examine the animals for health and to ensure that all the ear numbers were correct. We both laughed heartily at this because it seemed that in Turkey an ear number is as world-shakingly important and sacrosanct as in England.

The unloading was a painfully slow business. The electrician hadn’t done a perfect job because the hoist kept stopping in mid-air for tense periods while Karl tugged at the lever and swore, but it always restarted and the work went on.

Fortunately, the animals’ wagons were shaded by the hangar because the sun was truly fierce. Also, they had water and some hay, so they were comfortable.

The same could not be said of the farmers and myself. I was dirty, sweaty, unshaven and starving, and I was only popping up and down from aircraft to ground, supervising things. How Joe and Noel felt, wrestling with the cattle, I could not imagine. And all the time Istanbul lay tantalisingly out of reach.

As the hours wore on and the sun blazed, there was no sign of the captain, but the two young Americans, Ed and Dave, wandered over frequently to inspect the repairs on the engine. Occasionally they stopped and chatted to me about their life and job, and I found them most likable men. They didn’t seem to have a care in the world. They slouched around smilingly in their baggy suits, hands deep in their pockets. Those pockets, I was to find later, were filled with the currency of a dozen nations. Pesetas rubbed shoulders with drachmas, guilders, lira, dimes, kroner, shillings. They roamed the world in their old aircraft, free as birds, taking each day and new country as it came, and, though hardly more than boys, they must have seen almost everything. They have remained in my mind as true soldiers of fortune.

It was around four o’clock when the last heifer entered its wagon and the Turkish vets were completing their examination. Noel came up to me. His shirt was a wet rag clinging to his chest, and he wiped his streaming face with his forearm. “I tell you, Jim,” he said. “Moi stomach thinks moi throat’s cut.”

“Mine too, Noel,” I replied. “I’m ravenous. I’ve gone nearly round the clock since the sandwiches at Gatwick.”

“Oi could murder a pint, too,” Joe put in. “Can’t remember when oi’ve had such a bloody thirst on.”

It seemed that our troubles weren’t over yet. The vets were taking their time over the inspection, but at any rate there did not seem to be any complaints. They were clearly satisfied with what they saw.

Unfortunately, this did not last. From our place under the Globemaster’s wing where we were sheltering from the sun, we saw a sudden stillness fall on the group of men. They were looking in a cow’s ear and consulting a sheaf of papers again and again and even from a distance I sensed the tension. There followed a consultation, and then a lot of waving of arms.

Finally the head vet shouted across, “Mr. Herriot, come here, please!”

With the farmers I walked over to the wagon.

“Mr. Herriot,” the man went on, “we have found a wrong number.” His dark complexion had paled, and his lips trembled. The expressions on the faces of the other men in the group were uniformly distraught.

I groaned inwardly. The unthinkable had happened.

One of the vets, upright and set-faced, waved me towards the offending cow with a dramatic gesture of his arm. I climbed into the wagon and looked in the ear. It was number fifteen. With the same theatrical flourish, the vet handed me the sheaf of papers. They contained the descriptions, ages and numbers of the animals, and, sure enough, no number fifteen.

I smiled weakly. I wasn’t quite sure whether this was my responsibility or not. I had checked off all the numbers on our own sheet when we loaded at Catwick, and I had thought they all tallied. Had I made some awful boob? It made it worse being so far from home.

I turned to Joe. “You brought the list from Jersey, didn’t you?”

“Oi did,” Joe replied with an edge of belligerence in his voice. “And it’s correct. It’s in moi bag.”

“Slip over and get it, will you, Joe?” I said. “We’ll see if we can sort this out.”

The farmer strolled unhurriedly to the Globemaster, climbed inside and duly returned with the sheet.

Breathlessly I scanned the list. “There it is!” I said triumphantly. “Pedigree number, then number fifteen!” Relief flowed through me. We were saved.

The Turkish vet took Joe’s list and retired for a further consultation. For a long time there was an incomprehensible chattering and much brandishing of arms, then apparently there was a unanimous decision. All the men nodded firmly, and some of them folded their arms. The head man stepped forward, taut-faced.

“Mr. Herriot, we have concluded that there is only one thing to do. You will understand that we have to follow our own list. There is no guarantee that this is the animal which we purchased originally, so with regret I have to tell you that you must take her back.”

‘Take her back!” This was a bombshell. “But that’s impossible!” I cried. “This cow doesn’t just come from England, she is from the Island of Jersey. I can’t see any way of doing what you say.”

“I am sorry,” he said, “but nothing can change our decision. We cannot accept a wrong animal. How you do it is your concern, but you must take her back.”

“But… but… “I quavered. “How do you know it’s a wrong animal? The whole thing is probably a simple clerical error at your office.”

He drew himself up to his full height. He was a well-fleshed six-footer, and he looked most impressive as he stared at me and held up his hand. “Mr. Herriot, I repeat, what I have said is irrevocable.”

“I… I… well, you see…” I was beginning to gabble when I felt Joe’s hand on my arm. He eased me gently to one side and stepped up in front of the head vet. He put his hands on his hips and pushed his craggy, sweat-streaked face close to the man’s moustache. His steady eyes held the imperious stare of the Turk for several seconds before he spoke.

“Oi ain’t takin’ ’er baack, mate,” he said in his slow drawl. “That’s
moi
job, and oi ain’t takin’ ’er baack.” The voice was soft, the words unhurried, but they held a wonderful note of finality, and the effect was dramatic. The big man’s facade collapsed with startling suddenness. His whole face seemed to crumble, and he looked at Joe with an almost pathetic appeal. His mouth opened and I thought he was going to say something, but instead he turned slowly and rejoined his friends.

There was a murmured consultation, punctuated by shrugging of shoulders and sorrowful glances in the farmer’s direction, then the head man gave the signal for the wagons to move away. The battle was over.

“Bless you, Joe,” I said. “I thought we’d had it that time.”

We obeyed the captain’s instructions and hung around till the cows had left the airfield. It pleased me to think they were heading for a good life. They were all going to top-class pedigree farms; in fact, they were animal VIP’s.

I was also pleased when my Turkish colleagues came up and bade us goodbye in the most cordial manner. I had an uncomfortable feeling that the incident might have spoiled their day, but they were all smiles and appeared to have recovered magically.

I looked at my watch. Five o’clock. We had been out on that oven of an airfield for nine hours. It was actually seven o’clock Turkish time, so the precious day was fast slipping away. I felt at the stubble on my chin. The first thing was a shave and a wash.

With the farmers, I made my way over to the airport terminal, and in the men’s room we stripped off, drank a lot of water and made our ablutions. I have a vivid memory of a little man who kept dabbing talc on my bare back all the time. I thought he was working for a tip, but all he wanted was one of my razor blades, which I gave him.

“That’s better,” Noel said as we came into the lounge. “If only we could get some grub. Oi’m famished.”

I knew how he felt. My appetite now was wolfish, but surely food couldn’t be far away.

This hope received a boost when we saw the towering form of Captain Birch striding towards us.

“I’ve been looking for you fellows,” he said. “There are a few things I want to tell you. Come and sit down over here.”

We arranged ourselves on padded chairs round a small table, and the sombre eyes looked us over for a few moments before he spoke.

“I don’t know who is in charge of your party, but I’ll address my remarks to you, Mr. Herriot”

“Right”

“Now, I’m sorry to tell you that all attempts to rectify the oil leak in the engine have failed.”

“Oh.”

“This means that we will have to fly the aircraft on three engines to our headquarters in Copenhagen for major repairs.”

“I see.”

“It also means that you chaps can’t come with us.”

“What!”

His expression softened. “I’m sorry to have to spring this on you, but the position is, frankly, that the aircraft is in an unsafe condition, and we are not allowed to carry passengers or any personnel but the crew.”

“But …” I asked the obvious question. “How do we get home?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” the captain replied. “The obvious thing is to contact the Export Company in London by telephone—I have their number here—and I’m sure they will make arrangements for you to be flown to England.”

“Well. . . thank you … I suppose that would be the thing to do.” Another thought occurred to me. “You say the aircraft is unsafe?”

The majestic head nodded gravely. “That is so.”

“In other words, you might never make Copenhagen.”

“Quite. There is that possibility. Flying over the Alps under these circumstances is going to be a little tricky.”

“But how about you? How about you and the crew?”

“Ah yes.” He smiled, and suddenly he looked like a kind man. “It’s good of you to ask, but this is our job. We have to go, don’t you understand? It’s our job.”

I turned to the farmers. “Well, I suppose we’d better do as the captain says?”

They nodded silently. They looked shattered, and I felt the same. But I took the point about that strange aeroplane. If one engine had given up, how reliable were the other three?

“I’d better find a phone, then. Will I do it from here or from the hotel?”

The captain cleared his throat. “That’s another thing I was going to mention. I haven’t been able to find a hotel.”

“Eh?”

“Afraid not,” he said. “I’ve tried everywhere, but it’s some kind of a public holiday here, and all the hotels are booked.”

I had nothing to say to this. Everything was turning out great