by John Kirkaldy
Longlisted – PureTravel Writing Competition 2024
I am one of the few people that pay strict attention to those airline demonstrations on flight safety. My greatest journey makes it inevitable, as it resulted in a crash landing and rescue in a desert. I can, however, recall nothing of the actual details but photographs and family accounts prove that I was actually there. The events surrounding the flight have had a profound effect on my life.
I was born in July 1947, a few weeks before India and Pakistan became independent. This resulted in the single biggest human migration in recent history, as Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs tried to find safety in new boundaries; nobody can say how many died, maybe a million. My father, a young army officer, came across an ambushed train, where every single passenger had been killed and mutilated, and the vultures were so gorged on human flesh that they could not fly. My birthplace, Kashmir, has been the cause of three wars and innumerable border skirmishes.
It was the first flight for two of the family; my mother, as a WAAF officer during World War Two, had done a few. The British were quitting India in a rush after centuries of government. Thousands of us were crammed into a transit camp, which my mother commented on in her scrapbook, as being ‘little better than Belsen.’ It was several months before our turn came up.
Pictures of the ancient Dakota are not inspiring. We were packed in so tight that there was no chance of in-flight entertainment or meals. My mother’s reassurances proved premature; after half an hour, looking out the window, the port propeller started to go slow and then stopped. At the same time, the cowling of the starboard propeller flew past the window and narrowly missed the tail fin. The plane began to dip at an increasing speed and everybody began to scream.
It was the desert that saved us. The pilot did not have enough time to put down the wheels. He showed great skill in managing to halt the plane and keep it upright. As it was mainly service personnel, the passengers exited in an orderly procession.
The heat was intense. There is a picture of my father holding me in the shade of the wing. Luckily, the radio was intact and rescue arrived by a convoy of vehicles. A few days later, we were all in London.
All greatest journeys should inspire and I keep coming back to India. On my first visit, I went to the hospital in Srinagar, where I was born and where an armed guard had toured the maternity block. A few years ago, I worked as a volunteer on a project for women and young girls from poor backgrounds or low caste in Jodhpur, not too far from the crash landing.
We were very lucky to survive and my greatest journey has meant I will always continue to check those safety demonstrations.
Photo by Suhyeon Choi on Unsplash
