Afghan Frontier

Flight Journal, Aug 2004 by Morley-Mower, Geoffrey

"How do you like it here in this outlandish spot, chasing the Fakir and his boys?" he asked

"When the army gets close," someone offered, "he just nips over the border."

"Quite so. It's an intractable problem. Have you heard about that bloody fool?"

His audience froze into silence. No one answered.

"No, sir," I said.

"Oh, it's a great joke. They've convinced him that he must go into the Madda Khel to explode a bomb that didn't go off. As if anyone cared about a bomb on top of a mountain! He's been taught to ride a camel!" The Maharajah couldn't contain his laughter. He let out a guf- faw before going on. "They've dressed him up as a tribesman! Can you imagine?"

He looked around, smiling broadly. Everyone was quiet.

"Have I said anything wrong?" he asked.

"No, sir," I replied. "I'm the bloody fool."

I have often asked myself whether I was unusually innocent. Perhaps I was. But it is nearer to the truth to say that I wanted adventure above all things. I was thrilled by the idea of penetrating tribal territory and excited by the danger of being killed or captured. I was aware of the horror stories. The skin of an army officer who fell into the hands of hostile tribesman was thrown, a couple of nights later, onto the ground in front of his regimental HQ. We all knew the dangers of having engine trouble over tribal territory, and we carried an official message, signed by the governor of the province, that offered a substantial reward for our safe return. No one, however, believed for a moment that it would save us from atrocious torture by a people to whom such cruelties are routine. But the fact is that all this exotic detail thrilled my romantic soul, and the cynics who pulled my leg knew it.

One of the disadvantages of being a "bograt" was that we flew at uncomfortable hours. During the summer at Kohat, 120 degrees F was common; the senior pilots flew in the cool morning. The bograts flew at midday. In that heat, all metal parts would burn your skin if you touched them. This was a problem when dressed in a khaki shirt and shorts. Moreover, the air was extremely bumpy and uncomfortable to fly in.

Disaster struck on June 26, 1939, a cloudless day with the atmosphere of a blast furnace. My friend Flight Lt. W.E. "Billy" Bowden and I had been scheduled to practice dive-bombing on the nearby range. We had trained together in England, and we shared the exotic dream of adventurous flight that we had acquired from our reading about WW I air heroes. Although it was frowned on, we decided to take off in formation, with our eight, 20-pound bombs tucked under our wings-determined to show our skills as ace pilots.

The takeoff went fairly well. Kohat, looking civilized and secure beneath us, sat under a range of hills that stretched southwest toward Miramshah and the Afghan frontier. Even in June, the British garrison playing fields were watered and green. The little town shimmered in the heat; the golden dome of a mosque counterpointed white, flat-roof buildings. The road to Peshawar runs north, winding up the Kohat Pass and disappearing beneath the nose of the "Old Lady"-a curious rock formation that resembles the profile of a toothless hag.