Hope Has Wings - preview

HOPE HAS WINGS The dramatic and inspirational story of MAF

Stuart Sendall King

CHAPTER 1

Shattered Dreams

T

he mountains looked beautiful as they rose majestically into the sky around us. Symbols of permanence: awesome, mysterious, dramatic.

We were flying through rising valleys amid the Burundi foothills. Jack Hemmings was beside me at the controls of our sleek little four-seater Gemini aircraft, taking it eastwards from Usumbura towards our headquarters in Nairobi, 500 miles away. It was Saturday, 10th June 1948, 10.30am.

Six months before, we had left England to make an intensive air and ground survey across a vast tract of central Africa. The last two weeks, in Rwanda and Burundi, had been particularly punishing. Early mornings and late nights, hours on the ground in the tropical heat, constant moving from place to place, had left us dog-tired.

But there was still much to be done and we were determined to press on to Nairobi by nightfall to prepare for the last phase. We were trying to conserve fuel, since to stop for more would involve wasting a night on the ground (our plane was not equipped for night flying). So, rather than gaining height quickly, we were climbing slowly and steadily.

My rather weary eyes scanned the cockpit instrument panel.

The altimeter read 7,500 feet: all right so far, though we would need still more height to clear the mountains ahead. The 25

engine tachometers showed 2,500 revolutions per minute, the maximum for continuous climb. The needle on the rateof-climb indicator was recording an ascent of 320 feet per minute, the most we could achieve at this altitude with our two small Cirrus engines.

I glanced down at the green slopes of the ascending valley floor beneath. Patches of broad-leaved banana trees covered the hills on both sides as we flew. To anyone on the ground the little silver plane, glinting in the African sun, must have appeared very small and fragile against the towering mountain walls. Looking around, I sensed that frailty. We seemed so tiny, vulnerable and fleeting, the mountains so immense and unchangeable.

Jack’s eyes were fixed firmly on the horizon in front. About 15 miles away loomed a final long ridge, 1,000 feet above us and right across our flight path. We estimated that, by the time we reached it, we should be high enough to cross it. A strong headwind was blowing over the hills towards us and progress had been rather slow, but much of the mountainside was now behind us and we had successfully crossed several transverse ridges.

As we approached the last and highest of them, still needing to climb, our engines were running steadily. Suddenly Jack called out, concern, if not alarm, in his voice: ‘What’s happening? We’re not gaining altitude.’ He pushed the throttles fully open. I looked at the rate-of-climb indicator and didn’t believe what I saw. It was registering zero.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ I demanded.

A moment later the needle had swung down yet further, pointing to a descent of 300 feet a minute. We still couldn’t believe it. The engines were straining at full power. How could we be losing height and at such a rate? This was not a situation we’d ever encountered with powerful military aircraft in the Second World War. 26

World War II. Long hours on patrol over the grey waters of the Atlantic had given him plenty of time to ponder.

He thought about the power and versatility of aircraft; of all the Coastal Command planes on patrol; of bomber, transport, fighter and ground-attack aircraft. Command of the skies had been decisive in the Battle of Britain, the Mediterranean, North Africa, Asia and the more recent invasion of Europe.

Man had learned to fly: was such knowledge and experience to be devoted only to conflict?

From childhood, Murray had had the privilege and influence of a Christian family. He’d felt a particular concern for the millions of people who lived, impoverished and fear-ridden, in isolated places – mountains, deserts, jungles or swamps. He was convinced that more should be done to reach them. He believed that planes could be used to bring them help and hope. To show them God’s love. To do so in partnership with overseas churches and missions.

But how could it be done? Murray felt strongly that aviation shouldn’t normally be taken on as a sideline by missions, even where it was greatly needed. Such an approach would be neither efficient nor safe. It was a task for specialists.

The Mildmay Movement was an organisation based in the Mildmay Park area of Islington, London. It had been founded

by Dr Thomas Cochrane (previously a pioneer medical missionary in China), to encourage fresh initiatives in Christian outreach all over the world. Murray knew of its work, so he visited Dr Cochrane, hoping that Mildmay might be interested in developing the use of aircraft.

Dr Cochrane listened closely. He responded to Murray immediately: ‘What would be the chance of your coming to start this at once? It will be a full-time job for somebody. Is that somebody you?’

Murray was shaken. The positive response was encouraging, but the immediate challenge threw him. He’d shortly be 28

‘We’re in down currents!’ Jack sounded tense. The wind was swirling over the final ridge, sweeping down the mountainside and pushing us relentlessly towards the valley floor. Unless we could escape very quickly we’d hit the ground.

‘I’m turning out of this.’ Jack swiftly banked the plane around. ‘We’d better get back to Usumbura and think again.’

Extremely disappointing, but all was not lost.

As we flew down the centre of a valley we realized with horror that we were still losing height. We barely skimmed over a ridge we had crossed with ease on our way up. Suddenly I winced as I felt a brief splintering jerk. The end of the starboard wing had caught and broken off the top of a banana tree, foliage flying in the air. Then I saw that nine inches of the wing tip had disappeared, too. It was a shock, but we’d known many planes limp home with far worse damage during the war. At least we were clear – and still airborne.

‘We can still get back to Usumbura and repair that wing,’ I called. Jack didn’t hear. His whole attention was concentrated on avoiding another ridge just ahead. In vain. A cloud of dirt and debris enveloped us as we smashed into it. The Gemini’s wooden propellers struck the ground and shattered. The wings twisted and broke. The tail snapped. The plane slewed round and slid down the hillside where it stuck, a silent splintered wreck.

Mercifully the cabin and rear fuselage had remained intact.

But, with our fuel tanks still almost full, there was an imminent danger of fire. We scrambled out as quickly as we could, bruised and scratched but otherwise unhurt. There was no fire.

We stood staring incredulously at the wreckage of the plane.

It was amazing that, by the grace of God, we were still very much alive.

It had all begun four years earlier with Murray Kendon, a New Zealander who was flying with RAF Coastal Command in 27