To the Wild Sky

by Ivan Southall

  He was down to 5,000 feet.

  When he crossed the shore again he looked back into the south, along the division between earth and water. Not that anything was plain to see, but it didn’t look unlike the shores of a large lake in flood except for something that might have been a narrow strip of sand. There was a distinct but irregular line immediately adjoining the land, a change of colour. Three colours. Water, line and land.

  It was the sea breaking on a beach.

  Gerald shivered. It was as though he had stepped into a bitterly cold room. Did the others know? Unless they were blind they must have known. He had come to the sea and flown across it and reached land again. What sort of impossible joke was this? Or had he flown out into the great ocean and chanced upon an island?

  Oh, glory. What sea was it? He was back to that unanswerable and incredible question. If this truly were the sea, he had flown with mighty winds behind him, winds of sixty, eighty, or a hundred miles an hour. So far from Coonabibba, that they might be lost forever.

  He was down to 3,000 feet and turning widely over the sea and the moonbeam was wheeling under the wing.

  He gave the engine another burst to clear the oil, almost without thinking of it, and there was a misfire and a shower of sparks from the exhaust. It frightened him half out of his wits, but then the Egret purred on again, steadily.

  What was the time? Seven-fifty-six. How long had he been up? Figures started beating him again. Must be getting on for seven hours – the absolute endurance of the Egret.

  He had to go down. This time there was to be no continuing on course, no closing his eyes or his heart or his mind to the challenge of returning to the earth, no putting it off until later.

  He was down to 2,300 feet now, flying parallel to the beach, heading south-west he thought, about half a mile offshore.

  Where were the surface winds coming from? How strong were they? Should he land on the beach heading north or heading south? It was so hard to decide. Probably into the south would be best because he was almost certain that the winds higher up were blowing from that direction. It didn’t go without saying that the winds on the surface were the same, but he had to make a decision one way or the other. All right, into the south, and perhaps the beach was curving that way.

  He crept in more and continued to go down, then thought suddenly of something else.

  He leant across to Jan and screamed, ‘Safety belts! Tight!’

  Jan’s was tight already, but she twisted and looked back to the others and waved an arm. She couldn’t see them very well, but they saw her, and understood. Bruce had made sure of it ages ago. For at least an hour all had sat crushed to their seats, each harness tightened until it could not be tightened more, so tight that they were numbed and bruised and tense with fear.

  1,600 feet, about a quarter of a mile offshore, edging in, still going down, but the beach was narrow and its curves were tricky and it was all so difficult to see, to be sure. And he knew that flaps had to be used for landing, but how and in what way? It would be better not to try. He might end up wrecking everything. He should have practised when he was up above the clouds. He had decided to do it, made up his mind to it, then the thought had melted away. Oh, golly. All that time up there and he hadn’t done it.

  1,200 feet now on the altimeter, but it wasn’t right. He was lower than that? The water looked so close. There were breakers to be seen, distinctly. A shaft of fear pierced him.

  The altimeter was certainly wrong and he was 200 yards offshore.

  Almost in panic he touched the rudder with his left foot, skidded the Egret over, pleaded for the land to rush out to meet him. And it did. The curving shore swept into his path, but the breakers, now on his right, didn’t seem to be closer. He had lost 200 feet and they looked the same as before.

  Ninety knots. Much, much too fast. How to get it back? How to stay on course? How to follow the beach? Its direction was so changeable.

  Eighty knots, but now the controls felt funny. He had too much engine on, that was it. He was up and down and all over the place like a roller-coaster.

  Engine off! It had to be done. And he did it numbly, in terror, and at once the engine note changed and he felt the seat drop from under him. Felt himself sinking into a world of trees.

  In wildest alarm, he realized he had lost the beach. Sixty knots. Where was the beach? The controls were so sloppy and there was nothing but trees. Fifty knots. Nothing but trees. She was going, going to fall, going to drop clean out of the sky.

  ‘Oh, God, please,’ he screamed. ‘God please. I don’t know where I am, I can’t see.’

  But the speed was still fifty knots and still he floated. It felt like a leaf falling, like a leaf fluttering into an emptiness that might never come to an end.

  ‘We’ll be killed,’ he screamed, and then the Egret struck and everything was black and shapeless and violent. There was a blow in his back like a swing from a club and a roaring sound in his head and suddenly he was in the air again, where he didn’t know, how he didn’t know, except that the nose was in the air again and the sky was swimming with watery stars and the bottom seemed to be falling out of a world that was breaking apart.

  A thought crowded in somewhere that he had hit the beach after all, not the trees, hit the beach at the waterline, and that the Egret had bounced like a punctured rubber ball. He knew he had to switch off, but couldn’t find the switch, not quickly enough. He fumbled wildly, but struck again in an eruption of spray.

  The engine expired in a discharge of water and sound and sparks and the Egret twisted as though spinning on a roundabout, buckling into sand and water like some huge animal with failing legs.

  Then there was quiet. Everything was quiet except for the sound of children crying.

  9.

  Landfall

  They were upright. At least they were not hanging upside down from their straps; but waves were breaking over the tail-plane and cracking against the side of the fuselage. There was water inside as well as outside, but Gerald couldn’t move. He didn’t know whether he was injured or not, but he knew he wanted to cry. The others were crying. Perhaps they started him off. A sob welled up and shook him and then another sob, and there wasn’t any feeling of shame or embarrassment. Only exhaustion. Only a longing to sleep and to cry.

  Someone came to him after a while and put a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t know who it was and he didn’t care and he didn’t want to know. Then the hand went away.

  It was Colin, dazed and weak, but conscious of the need to do something about escaping from the Egret. As far as he could see they were about fifteen yards offshore and there was pale moonlight and a beach and dark trees. He had a vague idea that it was very important to get away from a crashed aeroplane, but that the sea all around was going to make it awkward. Maybe if he opened the door the sea would flood in and they’d all drown before they could get out. Undecided, he stood there swaying, lost, even thinking about things that had no bearing on the situation at all. He had wanted to ask Gerald a question, but couldn’t remember what it was.

  The water was up to his knees, but it wasn’t cold; cool at first, soothing, then almost warming. It seemed to take some of the ache away.

  Then a voice said, ‘Colin’s not here. His seat’s empty.’ It was Carol.

  ‘I’m here,’ said Colin.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here.’

  Bruce said rather tightly, ‘Is every one all right?’ There were one or two desultory answers and someone said, ‘If we don’t get out of here we’ll drown.’

  ‘I think I’ve broken something,’ said Bruce. ‘My leg’s awful sore.’

  Jan whimpered but didn’t put anything into words. It was so hard to think with Gerald there beside her, shaking with almost soundless sobs. He was in an awful state. She wished he’d howl and get it over and done with.

  ‘Probably you’ve only jarred your leg,’ said Carol. ‘You couldn’t have broken it. It’d hurt terribly.’

&
nbsp; ‘That’s how it’s hurtin’.’

  Colin said, ‘I reckon we could wade ashore all right. It’s not that deep. About waist-high, I reckon.’

  ‘The waves are rough.’

  ‘Only because they’re breaking.’

  ‘What about my leg?’

  ‘It can’t be broken. No one else is hurt.’

  ‘Who’s going to be first to see if it’s all right?’ said Colin. ‘No good me going. I can’t swim with my clothes on.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Jan.

  ‘I reckon it ought to be a boy, not a girl.’

  ‘I’m the best swimmer, aren’t I? It ought to be me, even if I am a girl, or Bruce. Bruce can swim all right but not if he has a bad leg.’

  ‘What I want to know is, where are we? What are we doin’ here?’ Mark’s voice was fretful.

  ‘Oh, pipe down. We’ll worry about that later.’

  ‘Yeh; but what are we doin’ in the sea? I mean t’ say . . .’

  Colin said, ‘I think I’d better go first, Jan. After all, it’s not right that a girl should go first.’

  ‘But you said yourself that you can’t swim with your clothes on.’

  ‘I’ll take them off.’

  ‘Cor,’ said Mark.

  ‘It’s dark, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I’ll tell.’

  ‘Tell who?’

  They almost heard his mouth open, but nothing came out. There wasn’t anybody to tell. Even Mark knew that.

  Colin peeled off to his underpants and said, ‘All right, I’m going to open the door. Perhaps you’d all better stand up, in case the water comes in deep. Maybe you’d better help Gerald, Jan. I don’t think he’s very well.’

  Jan didn’t know what to do with Gerald, but didn’t say anything, and Colin waded round Jim and tried to open the door. He couldn’t shift it. He was still weak, but not so weak that a door was too much for him. He put his shoulder to it but it didn’t give an inch.

  ‘Crikey,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘The blooming door won’t open. Must be twisted or something.’

  ‘Are you trying to open it inwards or outwards?’

  ‘Outwards, of course. I’m not that silly.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s the weight of the sea against it.’

  Imagine a girl thinking of that! Jan, of all people!

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said. ‘Well, someone will have to give me a hand. We’ll all have to get our shoulders against it and give a jolly good heave.’

  ‘Can’t you get out of the top of these things?’ said Bruce. ‘Don’t they have a door in the roof? Give Gerald a dig in the ribs. Crikey, it’s his aeroplane. He ought to know.’

  ‘Gerald’s sick,’ said Colin.

  ‘Fine time to get sick. Crikey, I’ve got a broken leg, but I’m carryin’ on all right.’

  ‘You’re sure carrying on.’

  ‘Shut up, Mark.’

  Carol splashed past Colin and went to Gerald. Gerald meant a lot to her, and if he wasn’t well she felt she had to be with him. When her hands closed on his shoulders she was astonished. He was shaking violently and though he tried to speak to her, he couldn’t. His trembling was even in his throat and in his jaws. He couldn’t control his tongue, but he made a noise and glanced to the clear panel of perspex behind his head. ‘That’s where you get out,’ she said to Colin. ‘It must be a door.’

  Then she started smoothing Gerald’s brow and his hair, stroking him gently with her fingers and whispering against his ear: ‘It’s all right. Everything’s all right now. I’m so proud of you. Don’t hold it in. Get rid of it.’

  But Gerald couldn’t. He hadn’t been ashamed at the start, but he was now. He knew if he let go he’d scream and scream and scream and they’d wonder for ever afterwards what sort of boy he was. Somehow, with Carol, it might have been different, but not with the others. They’d never forget. They’d always hold it against him in their hearts. They’d forget all that he had done: they’d only remember that afterwards he had screamed. He was a Hennessy. Hennessys didn’t do that sort of thing.

  Colin went out through the roof and slid over the side into the water, dropping immediately to chest depth. In surges it was up to his chin. They’d have to swim for it, particularly the shorter ones, and there was an undertow to be reckoned with, too. It even crushed him against the side of the aircraft as the waves went out, threatening to drag him down. It alarmed Colin, because he wasn’t used to the sea; his swimming had been done in pools and billabongs and the backwaters of rivers.

  Jan appeared above him, squatting on the wing. ‘What’s it like?’ she said.

  ‘No good. It’s dangerous.’

  ‘We’ll have to get out,’ Jan said, ‘because she’s shifting. She shifted just now. She’s gone over on one side.’

  ‘The aeroplane has?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Crumbs. Mark will drown for sure. He can’t swim for nuts. And I don’t think I could hold him. He gets so panicky in water.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to be panicky. He seems to have more cheek than anyone.’

  ‘That’s because he can’t see what’s out here . . . I wonder whether there’s a rope or anything? We could tie it to something here then I could run it ashore. Because there’s Bruce, too. If anything’s really wrong with his leg . . .’

  ‘Bruce is a great big baby.’

  ‘Yeh; but just the same . . . something must be wrong with it.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can find a rope.’

  Jan disappeared and Colin locked his fingers round the wing strut and hung on, swaying to the surges of the sea. He could hear the waves breaking on the shore and the huge, continuous murmur that was the restless sea itself. He could distinguish more now, too. Detail after detail of his surroundings registered on his mind, one after the other, like a sum that he was adding up. From the attitude of the Egret he knew the under-carriage was snapped off, the tail-plane broken, and the propeller bent almost like a soft candle. He could see huge boulders along the beach, massive outcrops of rock, which somehow the plunging and skidding Egret had managed to avoid. He could see shore-line trees, spindly, twisted things tossing in gusts of wind, and he could see in the sky signs of unmistakable and deepening gloom in the south. But no lights. Nowhere a light, nowhere a glimmer that might have betrayed the presence of human habitation. It was far too early for people to have gone to bed. This was a deserted coast. Where had Gerald brought them? Did Gerald know? Was he in that state because he knew or because he didn’t know?

  ‘I’ve got a rope!’

  It was Jan, up above him again, looking down from the wing.

  ‘Oh good. That’s great.’

  ‘There’s a tomahawk, too, and a little spade. Bruce says it’s the crash kit. Do you want them?’

  ‘Just give me the rope for now, but don’t lose the other things, will you?’

  ‘No fear.’

  ‘I hope the rope’s long enough. Do you think it is?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Jan passed it down, still coiled up, still knotted in its coil. Dumb girl. She should have untied it for him. He struggled with it and said, ‘Get everything together, Jan. All our suitcases and things and everything that you can find. And if there’s a map, for Pete’s sake bring it.’

  The knot came undone and the coil fell apart in his hands. He was scared it was going to tangle.

  ‘Is that all you want me to do?’ said Jan.

  ‘Just get everything together and out on the wing. Go on, go on. Get moving. It’s not a blooming picnic.’

  ‘All right! Keep your hair on. What about Mr Jim?’

  ‘What about him? What can we possibly do about him? Go on, Jan. Do as I say. Please!’

  He got the end of the rope tied round the strut, but the rope wasn’t easy to handle in the dark, or in the water, then he started off for the shore, sometimes on his feet, sometimes swimming, sometimes e
ven dragged under by the current. The rope was an awful handicap; he kept getting his legs caught in it and he was afraid he was going to lose hold of the end. If only he didn’t feel so weak. He knew that if he lost the rope, it’d get tangled round the aircraft and then what would he do? But suddenly he was scrambling up the shelving sand and the sea was running back behind him and there were still yards of rope to go, enough rope to carry it to a boulder, run it twice round the circumference and knot it. Oh, for once things were going right. Was it secure? Yes, it was. It’d hold a horse.

  He ran back to the water’s edge and already two or three figures were up on the wing and it looked like another struggling up through the hatch. One, two, three, four. Four there were. Who was still below? Bruce with a broken leg or Gerald in too much of a fizz to help himself?

  ‘Come on,’ Colin bellowed, ‘get moving off there!’

  He waded out, hand over hand, along the rope, and two people slid off the edge of the aircraft, one shrieking at the top of his voice. It was Mark, performing like something out of a circus. Obviously he hadn’t slid off, he’d been pushed. ‘Clock him one,’ bellowed Colin. ‘Knock him on the head.’

  There was a wild struggle going on in the water, Mark gurgling and screaming and Jan shouting, but Colin got there and grabbed his brother by the hair of his head and roared at him. ‘Shut up, you little fool! You’re all right. You’re not going to drown.’

  Mark was way past understanding, because when the sea surged he was out of his depth and couldn’t put his feet down and his eyes and mouth and nose were full of water and his only instinct was to fight. Colin didn’t know what to do with him, except bang his head against the wing strut, as hard as he could bang it, even though the effort cost him his own foothold. They both went under and by the time Colin got up for air he had taken two great swallows of the sea. He spluttered and clawed his hair out of his eyes, but Jan was there to steady him and put his free hand on the rope.

  ‘Have you got him?’ Jan cried.

  ‘Yeh, yeh. I’m right. I’ll take him. Stupid little so-and-so.’