The Lost Valley

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Tom looked forward to the beginning of his advanced training. It would help keep his mind off Nana, and Harry and Emma. When he didn’t stay busy, thoughts of them hijacked him at every turn. Far better to lose himself in the intricacies of formation flying, forced landings, dive-bombing and mid-air gunnery.

  When he read in September that the last captive thylacine had died in Hobart zoo, he murmured a prayer for Karma and kissed her likeness on the silver chain around his neck. Then he volunteered to be the first cadet to go under the hood. A canvas cover was pulled over his cockpit to shut out the world. He couldn’t see sideways, up or down; true instrument flying in readiness for night flights and heavy cloud cover. More and more they were training for the theatre of war.

  Yet despite this new focus, and a rising political threat in Europe, Tom dismissed the chance of real military action. Hadn’t they already had the war to end all wars? As he pushed himself towards perfection, his motivation was mastery for mastery’s sake. And when Tom graduated at the top of his class; when he received his wings without any family to see or be proud, he had no sense of darker days to come.

  * * *

  The cadets had to nominate if they wished to stay with the RAAF, or join the Royal Air Force and go to England. Tom had originally chosen to stay, but when Nana died he’d changed his mind. Stu was going. They were best mates, and there was nothing left for him in Australia. He’d lost Emma. Harry sent his letters back marked return to sender. Tom’s remaining family, such as it was, consisted of two aunts who lived in England.

  ‘That’s the shot,’ said Stu. ‘An easy life, beer and girls is what I’ve heard. We’ll fly the best planes in the world and see the old country while we’re at it.’

  Tom went home with Stu to spend Christmas with his family. On January 9, 1937, along with twenty-three other Point Cook graduates, Tom and Stu boarded the ageing P&O liner RMS Narkunda that had been requisitioned by the Admiralty as a troopship. They stood waving on the deck, as well-wishers cheered and threw ribbons and streamers. Their great adventure had begun.

  Chapter 21

  Tom turned up his collar against the cold morning. After almost two years, he still wasn’t used to the bleak British weather. He lit a cigarette, and walked past the stores and camp cinema and sickbay, until he reached the officers’ mess. Why had Flight Commander Percy Donovan summoned his pilots there on a Sunday morning?

  The radio was turned up loud, and tuned to the BBC. ‘Righto chaps. Grab a cuppa and gather round,’ said Percy. ‘Prepare for a broadcast of national importance.’

  Tom fetched a hot drink and sat down to listen. He spotted Stu coming in the back door. The two Australians still insisted on wearing their dark blue RAAF uniforms, with RAF insignias attached. They stood out among their light-blue clad British companions.

  Neville Chamberlain came on the air, an ominous sign. He declared that Germany had not met the deadline for withdrawal of its troops from Poland, as per Great Britain’s demand. In a solemn voice, the Prime Minister announced that, as of September third, ‘this country is at war with Germany.’ Tom stiffened and a quiet cheer went up from some of the men. The national anthem sounded and they all stood to attention.

  A thrill of excitement and fear ran through him. Europe had been on the brink for weeks. RAF squadrons from across the country were cancelling leave and moving to a war footing. Yet Tom was still dazed by the news. He glanced around at the faces of his young companions. They looked like boys, even with the moustaches they’d grown to make themselves look older. Despite their intensive training, none of them knew anything of real war, except for what they’d read in books. In one sense it was a relief for the waiting to be over. Up until now they’d been playing—albeit on a grand scale—and the game was about to change.

  Tom felt for the solid presence of silver Karma in his pocket. She gave him a jolt of confidence, as always. What did he have to fear? He was the best flyer in the business, and everyone knew it. Recently promoted to squadron leader, sometimes even taking on flight commander duties.

  For some reason, his father’s face swam before him. Despite swearing to himself and Harry that he didn’t care any more, he couldn’t help wondering what Papa would think of his head-in-the-clouds son now? Just nineteen-years-old with a man’s job ahead of him. Would he have finally been proud?

  Tom fished Karma from his pocket and kissed her, like a Catholic kissing a rosary. He’d need all the help his lucky charm could give him.

  * * *

  None of them knew what to expect in the coming weeks. Would they be thrust straight into combat? Lose their best commanders to more experienced squadrons? Be split up? That would perhaps be the worst scenario, because they were like a family. Yet despite the declaration of war, they saw no action.

  The papers called the long months after Germany’s blitzkrieg attack on Poland ‘the phoney war’. Christmas came and went, with nothing happening. Many of the children evacuated at the start of the war were returned to their families.

  ‘Bloody hopeless,’ said Stu, when they learned the British raids over Germany weren’t dropping bombs, but propaganda leaflets. ‘What are we trying to do, annoy them to death?’

  Tom’s frustration grew. He was a squadron commander, but all he seemed to be in charge of was waiting.

  Then in March 1940 something happened to make the phoney war seem real. The squadron farewelled their Bristol Blenheim light bombers, and took delivery of a fleet of Spitfires. What a sensation; not even the ground crew could keep away. These high-performance, single-seater fighters were the best the RAF could offer, and were even faster than Hurricanes. They reached speeds of three hundred and fifty miles per hour, climbed to a height of four miles in nine minutes, and every pilot on the base dreamed of flying one.

  Tom moved reverently around the first aircraft to arrive. He stroked its elegant, streamlined fuselage like a man in love. For the first time he felt they were a proper fighter squadron. He climbed into the tiny cockpit and let his hands trail over the controls, imagining swooping high in the air like a falcon. He’d never flown a Spitfire, but with the help of a few experienced pilots, it would be his job to convert the entire squadron in the space of a few weeks. The prospect didn’t daunt him. Tom grinned, and went through the take-off drill in his head – RAFTP: radiator, airscrew, flaps, trim, petrol. He couldn’t wait to get in the air.

  * * *

  On the same day in May that Churchill replaced Chamberlain, Germany ended the phoney war. They began their push on the Western Front. One hundred and thirty-five divisions streamed into Belgium and Holland, then France. The Luftwaffe, with three and a half thousand front-line aircraft, annihilated its opposition. With less than half as many planes, the RAF squadrons based in Europe were quickly overwhelmed, some all but wiped out in the space of a week. Nothing could halt the German advance, and thousands of allied soldiers were being squeezed towards Dunkirk on the coast. It became clear that if the English forces were to have any chance of survival, the navy would have to mount a rescue mission by sea. Operation Dynamo was born.

  The navy didn’t have enough destroyers available for the job, so they commandeered eight hundred private vessels: ferries, pleasure craft, motor cruisers, paddle-steamers, even little fishing boats – anything that could get across the channel to pick up troops.

  RAF Fighter Command was given the task of defending this naval effort from the German bombers. The problem was, they’d already lost two hundred and fifty aircraft based at French airfields, along with many of their most seasoned pilots. Such heavy casualties resulted in corners being cut on training, and inexperienced pilots being drafted prematurely. It now fell to squadrons like Tom’s to protect the ships, port and beaches of Dunkirk.

  The night before their first sortie, Tom lay in bed, tense and wakeful in the room he shared with Stu, trying to envisage what they’d find across the channel. He knew the German army was surging like a tidal wave. He knew that hundreds of thousands of allied s
oldiers were trapped on the coast. Yet tomorrow morning’s mission still felt like a training exercise. He couldn’t imagine real-life struggle and suffering on such a grand scale.

  Maybe it was just as well. Tom knew the odds. As squadron leader, he’d be taking his untried Spitfire pilots up against the battle-hardened veterans of the Luftwaffe. They’d have less than an hour to engage the enemy. Any longer and they’d run out of fuel. The two new men’s only gunnery training on Spitfires had been ten rounds per gun, fired into the North Sea, which was hard to miss. They’d be out-numbered, out-skilled and out-resourced.

  Tom got up, pulled on a coat and went outside. Stu was already there. Was he thinking about his mother back in Australia? Worrying how she’d feel if he died? Tom lit a cigarette. Perhaps he was the lucky one. Apart from his aunts, he’d leave nobody behind to mourn.

  The two friends sat side by side on the step in silence. High above them, the moon tracked across the stars. Tom felt, as always, the irresistible tug of the sky.

  * * *

  At eight o’clock next morning the half-strength squadron – just six planes – was ready to go. Tom’s nerves had been replaced by suppressed excitement and an overwhelming sense of responsibility for his men. He rubbed Karma in his pocket for luck.

  ‘Where do you want my lot?’ asked Stu, who would lead the three rear planes.

  ‘Five hundred feet above,’ said Tom. ‘Stay between me and the sun. Mind your tails and no heroics.’

  As Tom climbed onto the wing, he felt a nervous, unexpected urge to urinate. There was nothing for it but to piss on the grass in front of the ever-present ground crew. When he looked around, every other pilot was doing the same thing.

  Soon Tom was strapped in the cockpit, leather helmet and goggles on, parachute stowed, radio ready and oxygen mask clipped in place. He signalled to the others and they took off, wheeling southwards. In minutes the English shoreline passed beneath their wings. They were headed for France, twisting their necks to scan the skies, flying escort over two destroyers sailing across the Channel.

  Shortly before reaching the French coast they spotted enemy aircraft: two Messerschmitt 109 fighters guarding two JU 88 bombers flying low beneath them. They were heading for the British destroyers, and seemed unaware of the Spitfires above.

  The enemy scattered when they realised the danger, and Tom went after the closest fighter: a grey plane bearing large, black crosses and swastikas on its tail. Marauding thoughts threatened Tom’s resolve. How old was the German pilot, crouching low in his cockpit? Was this his first fight too? Did he love to loop and roll on bright mornings as Tom did, alone with his thoughts, reaching for heaven?

  The German spotted Tom closing in, did a sharp stall turn and dived into a cloud. Tom dived after him, consumed now by the thrill of the chase and with no sense of danger. He fired a five-second burst from the wing-mounted guns, and emerged from the cloud to see the 109 losing altitude and streaming smoke and flame. His first hit! The pilot baled, but his parachute didn’t open. He spiralled into a fatal free-fall from six thousand feet. Tom watched in horrid fascination. The German seemed to take forever to hit the water, although it couldn’t have been more than a minute. What was in his mind during those final moments? Did the seconds stretch, or shrink?

  Tom shook his head to clear it. The other 109 was on his tail. Suddenly the air was filled with tracer fire, as if giant dragon claws were ripping through the sky. He dodged to the left and took cover in a cloud bank.

  Dimly he saw a plane flying parallel and ahead of him. It seemed too big to be a Spitfire, but a RAF pilot had recently downed a Blenheim from his own squadron, and Tom had a horror of doing the same thing. No luck raising the others on the radio. They must all have their hands full.

  Tom stalked the plane through the cloud until they emerged into a clear patch of sky. Bingo. A JU 88 bomber in his sights. Tom took it by surprise, opening fire with all eight guns at close range. Smoke and debris streamed from the fuselage and a sheet of flame licked at the engine. The rear-gunner attempted to defend, but it was too late. Tom was close enough to see the white faces of the four-man crew before the cockpit was engulfed in a fireball. He squirmed inside, horrified, feeling their pain. Against procedure he followed the stricken plane down until it slammed into the sea with a burst of white foam. Seconds later there was no sign that the bomber or its crew had ever existed.

  Tom climbed back up in a state of bewilderment. In the space of twenty minutes he’d downed two enemy aircraft and killed five men. It seemed like some kind of dream. He called up the rest of the squadron. One by one they responded. Mick had taken down a Messerschmitt too. That was three out the four enemy aircraft accounted for, a terrific result for any mission, let alone their first. The second bomber had fled, leaving the destroyers to steam safely on to Dunkirk.

  Tom called on the men to regroup. They still had enough fuel to do a quick sweep of the coast. He reached everyone except Stu. The damn fool had probably left his radio on transmit instead of receive again.

  Joel’s voice crackled over the radio. He was a wild young Canadian with barely ten hours experience in a Spitfire. ‘Those other 109s almost had me, sir.’

  ‘What other 109s?’

  ‘Half a dozen Messerschmitts came in above me, sir. I took a little hit while escaping, and went into a spin. Stu drew their fire so I could get away. Man, you should have seen that boy fly.’

  Tom’s belly turned to ice. They tried to raise Stu again, and failed. Nobody had seen him since he’d sped away with a bunch of German fighters on his tail. Spitfires were faster than Messerschmitts, and Stu could outfly most men on the base, but still … Tom sent someone to escort Joel and his wounded plane home. The rest of them spread out to search. No sign of a downed Spitfire. Tom felt sick, remembering how the trackless sea had swallowed the much larger German bomber without a trace.

  They searched until low fuel forced them to return home, dog-tired and miserable. Tom sought permission to re-arm, refuel and keep searching. Permission denied. The next squadrons out would do what they could to find Stu. Shipping had also been alerted, but by now Tom had lost hope. There was no escaping the dark, swirling waters of the channel. He’d seen for himself how it swallowed men and planes whole.

  Tom went to the room he shared with Stu. Everything was the same as when they’d left six hours earlier. The book Stu had been reading lay open on his bed. Now he’d never know how it ended. His towel, still damp, tossed on the window sill. A half-written letter to Dolly, his London girlfriend, lay on the table.

  Tom wandered around the room in a daze. You’d think he’d be used to loss, but apparently he was a slow learner. How could Stu, who’d eaten a double serve of bacon and eggs for breakfast, who’d been so full of life – how could he be dead? Knowing Stu, he would have put up a hell of a fight before they got him. Never more would Tom have sympathy for the enemy. He couldn’t wait to get back in the air to exact revenge.

  He started to collect up his things. There’d be no sleeping in this room tonight – maybe never again. The long, depressing evening stretched ahead of him. As squadron leader it would be his job to write up the report, maybe even inform Stu’s family. He sank down on Stu’s bed, eyes filling with tears.

  ‘Jeez mate, I didn’t know you cared.’

  Tom looked up. Was he imagining things? It was Stu, limping in, wearing a pair of trousers way too small for him, and an old-fashioned hounds-tooth jacket with leather patches at the elbow. Tom just stared, too shocked and delighted to speak.

  Stu slumped down on a chair, face battered and bruised but wearing a wide smile. ‘Aren’t you going to say hello?’

  ‘My God, mate. We thought you’d bought it.’

  ‘Very nearly did,’ said Stu, his voice shaky but strong. ‘A lucky shot took me down, but not before I bailed in the channel. One of those little boats we were guarding fished me from the water and took me to Dover. I hitched a ride back here with a milk truck.’

 
Tom grinned. ‘You haven’t seen a doctor yet?’

  ‘Nah, I’ll be right, mate. Could kill a beer right now though.’

  Tom ran to fetch the medicos, shouting to everyone he met, ‘Stu’s alive, he’s alive!’ He whispered a silent thank you to Karma in his pocket for delivering his best friend back to him. And a sudden, sure knowledge struck him. Let the Germans do the worst … As long as that lucky charm was in his pocket, they wouldn’t be able to touch him. He had this war.

  Chapter 22

  Emma arranged the big bunch of flowers in the vase on the table beside her mother’s wheelchair: tulips, daffodils, hyacinths and Dutch iris – blooms that could leave no doubt that spring had arrived. Emma would have preferred a native bouquet of waratahs and leatherwood, but Mum was a traditionalist.

  Eileen managed a lop-sided smile. Six years since the stroke, and her mother had made tremendous progress. Therapists at Dr Dennisdeen’s New Town Rehabilitation Hospital had worked with her as an inpatient at first, and later as an outpatient. Mum had painstakingly remastered the alphabet and could read simple texts. Using playing cards and numbered blocks, she’d learned how to count again. Emma was proud of how hard she tried with her daily memory exercises, along with her muscle and balance training.

  Mum could walk now, with the help of a stick; feed herself, although handling cutlery was still a struggle. With young Jack away fighting in New Guinea, she listened non-stop to the wireless, eager for news of the war. She also loved listening to serials, plays and talent quests, and knew the times and days of the week of her favourite programs.

  A speech therapist came by twice a week, although progress on that front had been depressingly slow. Dr Dennisdeen said that at six years out, not much more recovery could be expected.