Flight of the Tiger Moth

by Mary Woodbury

  “Thanks, Dad.” Jack figured his dad had put in a good word for Buddy before Jack had gotten home. He was pretty clever for an old ­guy.

  “Get some sleep, Jack,” his mother said. “We’ve got another performance tomorrow and Basil’s graduation is Monday. And don’t forget school starts on Tuesday.”

  “The Grade Twelves don’t have to show up until Wednesday.”

  “Did you know Trevor was only seventeen, Jack?”

  “I figured it out. He was talking about his older brother Tom who was eighteen and I asked him if they were twins. He got all embarrassed and I realized he’d used his brother’s birth certificate to sign up. He doctored the Thomas to look like Trevor instead.”

  “I’m glad you’re only sixteen. Thank goodness your dad was too young for the Great War and too old for the Second World War.” His mother headed toward the ­door.

  “Don’t stay out long. Just settle Buddy and get to bed.”

  “I’m pretty keyed up after tonight’s performance. I’m going for a walk.” Then Jack added. “Thanks for letting me keep Buddy, Mom. You won’t regret it.”

  “Don’t stay out too long. Have you a sweater on? It’s chilly.”

  Jack smiled to himself. Some things never ­changed.

  Chapter ­25

  On Tuesday, Wes and Jack stood out on the prairie, beside their bikes, watching the planes in the distance landing and taking off. They were taking advantage of their last free weekday to take a long ride. They had lunches in their carriers – and thanks to Ivy’s coaxing – sweaters in case the weather ­changed.

  Watching planes was more fun than watching geese or ducks in the spring and fall, the way they had when they were ­small.

  The war had changed the skies over Cairn. In fact, it had probably changed the skies everywhere. Jack had a feeling that airplanes were here to stay and he’d be watching them for years to come. He might even be flying one of his own ­someday.

  When Jack and Wes weren’t watching, they were listening to the buzz of aircraft, louder than a swarm of bees. By now they could differentiate one model from another and Jack could tell what shape the engine was in. Each had a language all its ­own.

  A Tiger Moth was flying overhead when suddenly the engine stuttered, misfired and the small plane descended slowly with obviously reduced power, moving west in the direction of ­Mortlach.

  “Oh, no! Not another one,” shouted ­Wes.

  “Looks like he’s trying to land.” Jack listened for a crash but none came. “It’s just a forced landing, Wes, not a crash! Let’s see if we can help!”

  No one could have saved Trevor. But Jack had to make sure this pilot was all right. It was a lousy landing, not a crash. Jack knew how to deal with the small problems. Working with Harold and Angus had taught him ­that.

  The boys headed in the direction of the downed ­plane.

  The Boyles’ old pickup came toward them, raising dust clouds and scattering pea gravel. “Some idiot’s pranged in a farmer’s field back there,” old man Boyle yelled as he passed ­them.

  “Was he all right?” Jack hollered, but Boyle was too far ­away.

  Wes pedalled steadily, beads of sweat streaming down his red face – or were they tears? He stood high like a jockey on a thoroughbred racehorse. “God, not another one!”

  Wes didn’t swear. Jack knew that. He was praying out loud as he pedalled furiously down the Mortlach ­road.

  Jack kept pace with him. “It’s going to be fine, Wes. He’s probably sitting there trying to figure out how to get back to the airfield.” He hoped he was right. A pilot could get hurt going down on a rough field. He hoped old man Boyle would call the ­aerodrome.

  As they came over a slight rise in the road, miles from any houses, they spotted the plane. She was sitting in a pasture, her left wings tipped down and the tire on the left side stuck in a gaping hole. She was 3828, Basil’s favourite ­plane.

  Jack dropped his bike and sprinted across the ditch and a small creek, and scooted under the fence where Wes held up the wire for him. The two of them raced to the Moth and Wes, being taller, leaned over the wing to check the ­cockpit.

  It was smattered with blood and feathers, a real mess. It took the two of them to pull the Perspex back because it was damaged. “Is that blood?” asked ­Wes.

  “It looks like duck or goose, what with all those feathers clinging to the windscreen. Who is it anyway?”

  “It’s Basil. He’s out cold.”

  “See if you can wake him up, Wes.”

  Jack moved to the front of the plane and stared at the cowling on the engine and the propeller while Wes bent over the crumpled form of ­Basil.

  “I wish he’d wake up.” Wes touched Basil’s shoulder, reached in and undid the helmet and loosened his flying jacket and scarf at the neck. “His skin is warm.”

  “The engine isn’t smoking or anything.” Jack was all business. “There’s a bunch of gunk in it. The propeller is all right. There’s a gash in the fabric on the right wing, not enough to ground it. How’s Basil?”

  “He’s not good.” Wes stood helpless. “What can we do?”

  Jack joined Wes. His breath caught in his throat. Basil’s helmet slid sideways, revealing a great gash on their friend’s forehead and blood seeping into the blond hair. A vein in Basil’s throat pulsed. Thank God he was alive. But he was unconscious and still ­bleeding.

  Jack took a big breath. Basil was in rough shape. Cathy didn’t need anything really bad to happen to her fiancé. Not if Jack could help. None of them needed any more unhappy endings. What could Jack do? That was the ­question.

  Wes’s face was ashen. A shock of reddish hair fell over his eyes. He gulped. “How bad is it?”

  “He needs a doctor.”

  “Should we get him out?” Wes stared into the ­cockpit.

  “I’d be afraid to move him. He’s probably got a concussion. Maybe there’s something broken.”

  “I could cycle back to the Hobbs place.” Wes turned as if anxious to ­go.

  “It’s too far. The longer a person’s unconscious, the worse it is.”

  “I could go for help to the base.”

  “Basil, Basil, wake up!” Jack hollered. “It’s at least ten miles to the airbase by road, Wes.” He rejoined Wes by the wing. “It would take too long.”

  “I could cycle to the closest farm or on to Mortlach.”

  “Can you stop the bleeding with your hankie?” A daring thought edged its way into Jack’s consciousness. “We don’t know how long he’ll be unconscious.” Jack’s head felt clogged and his ears were ringing. He could smell his own sweat. “We don’t know whether he has other injuries.”

  Could he get this crate flying again and take Basil back to ­base?

  “It’s only ten minutes to the airfield by plane.”

  “But Basil’s unconscious. The plane’s damaged,” said ­Wes.

  “I can fly a plane,” Jack said. “We can patch the plane up fast.”

  Jack stared around the field as if looking for advice from someone wiser than himself. He spotted an old shed across the gravel road. “Go check out that shed. See if the farmer has left stuff there. Maybe some machine oil or a few pails or cans to fetch water in.”

  His heart beat so loudly he was surprised it didn’t drown out his voice. He had his left hand on Basil’s shoulder. The soft ­well-­worn leather of the flight jacket felt like a second skin. “Basil, wake up, please.”

  “Jack, what are you thinking?” Wes looked ­sick.

  “ If he woke up, I could fly with him, make sure he was all right.”

  Wes stared at the front of the plane. “But the cowling is full of bird parts.”

  “We can fix that pretty fast.”

  The poor dumb bird had flown right into the propeller. Jack started pulling chunks of bloody muscle, tissue and bone off the ­cowling.

  “Yuk!” Wes stepped ­back.

  “The one I fixed wasn’t quite as bad as this. Dexter lan
ded it safely on the end of the strip. We hauled it in. We repaired it. A bucket of water and one of lubricating oil would help.” Jack went to ­work.

  Wes ran to the nearby creek and brought his cap back full of fresh water. Jack used his white hankie to clear away the mess and kept working on the engine. Wes ran across the road to the old shed and carried a tin can of oil from a drum. Then he fetched a can full of water from the creek. He checked Basil again. “I don’t like the looks of the blood running.”

  “No luck stopping it, Wes?”

  “Nope.”

  “Too bad the doctor hasn’t driven by.”

  “That’s a good idea, Jack. Let’s go for the doctor.”

  “Wes, I’m thinking.” Jack bent down and stared at the wheels and the field in front of the ­plane.

  “I hope you aren’t thinking what I think you’re thinking.” Wes’s eyes were wide as a frightened rabbit’s.

  “I can’t just leave him here. Wes, I know how to fly.”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Have you got a better idea?”

  “It can’t be too far to a farmhouse.”

  “His breathing is shallow. He’s bleeding. We don’t know if he’s got internal injuries.”

  “But…”

  “Wes, think how long it would take for the ambulance from the infirmary to get here. Add that to any ride to a farmhouse and a phone. You’re talking about an hour at least. We can have this plane up and out of here in a matter of minutes.”

  Wes sighed and shook his ­head.

  “Are you going to help me or not?”

  Wes looked longingly down the road in both directions as if praying for a vehicle to drive by. The quiet prairie stretched around them. A few frogs sang and a flock of sparrows rose and fluttered in the still ­air.

  “Okay, but I still think it’s dangerous.”

  Jack worked quickly, trying not to think of Trevor’s accident – the sharp drop of the biplane, the flames, the black smoke, the explosion. The terrible silence ­after.

  Basil wasn’t moving. There were no planes in the sky, no cars on the road. There was only himself and Wes and Basil Skelton, a young raf pilot who’d just gotten his wings, the guy Cathy was going to marry. Jack’s mind raced faster than a car motor. Sandy let me take off once. But I’ve never landed a plane. I could save Basil’s life or I could kill both of ­us.

  Jack’s mind flicked to Sandy, missing in action, his sister recovering from her injuries so she could continue nursing wounded or dying soldiers, and Trevor in the cemetery, close to Uncle ­Jack.

  He knew what he had to ­do.

  Wes and Jack, working together, lifted the tire out of the hole so the Tiger Moth could roll forward. Thank goodness it was a light ­plane.

  Jack talked to himself as he removed the last of the bird parts. I promised my mother I wouldn’t do anything dangerous. But that was before Trevor died, and he was my best friend in the whole world except for ­Wes.

  “Did you practice landing?” asked Wes, probably guessing the truth when Jack didn’t ­answer.

  Jack checked Basil as he climbed in the front section of the cockpit. Basil’s shoulder twitched under his hand. Everything looked in good order: the instrument panel, the stick and the pedals. Jack shuddered. Anxiety, fear and doubt knotted in Jack’s stomach and his throat turned to ­iron.

  Courage is not a gift; it is a decision. That’s what Arnie had said. A young man had to decide what mattered and ­act.

  He jumped down. “Help me roll this bird into the middle of the pasture.” Given his lack of experience, Jack knew he would have a better chance of getting the plane into the air if he had a flat ­surface.

  They hauled and then pushed the small plane to the smoothest part of the field. Prairie dust rose in clouds. Wes sneezed. Jack collected himself for one moment then climbed into the forward ­cockpit.

  “Try the propeller, Wes. Give it a whirl or two.” Remembering Angus, he added, “Make sure you stand clear when it starts firing.”

  He fastened his seat belt, checked the dials. The fuel was fine. He sucked one finger and put it into the air. The wind was from the west. He was pointed west. “That’s good,” he said to himself, thinking of the Station Standing Orders. “Always take off into the ­wind.”

  Wes spun the propeller…the engine caught. Wes ran around and closed the canopy. He scrubbed some of the dead bird from the windscreen with Basil’s silk scarf so Jack could see out, but it was still pretty ­messy.

  Jack taxied forward slowly, trying to get a feel for the plane. “It’s like riding a bicycle,” Sandy had told him. “You never forget.” What would Sandy have done? Fly the plane. That’s what both Sandy and Trevor would have done. Jack was doing the right ­thing.

  The plane bounced and bumped along. Jack put his hand on the stick, feet on the rudder pedals, and thought himself back into the mind of a ­flyer.

  He advanced the throttle, and pulled the Moth’s nose up. The engine stuttered and caught, stuttered and caught, with Jack still on the ground moving forward more quickly every moment. Why wasn’t the plane lifting? Beads of sweat popped out on his ­forehead.

  He took a deep breath. Jackie Waters was a very cautious, methodical fellow, that’s what Harold, his boss at the airfield had said. He was reliable. So he wasn’t going to lose his nerve ­now.

  The tires bumped and jarred, the wings tilted first one way and then another. Ahead of him, about a hundred yards away, stood an outcropping of stunted poplar and birch. He had to get the plane in the air before he reached ­there.

  Jack clenched his jaw. His stomach was plastered to his backbone. He ordered his hands to stop shaking, pushed the throttle ahead and headed the nose up. Checked his dials. No time to veer to the left or right. He saw the tangled branches coming closer, imagined the plane tearing into them. He pulled up the nose as hard as he ­could.

  Just yards from the bluff, the Tiger Moth lifted off, wobbling and weaving, its belly touching the top branches. It wasn’t a glorious takeoff, but he was in the air. Jack nosed up into the wide sky with a sigh of relief. Now he had to keep the plane on course, straight and ­steady.

  He turned the plane north and then east, back toward Cairn ­airfield.

  The engine sounded a little rough. Good job it wasn’t far to the base. The tower appeared on the horizon, straight ­ahead.

  “All aircraft taking off or landing must do so into the wind.” That meant he had to fly across the airport and turn to come back into the wind. That would put him on Runway One. He checked his height. “Aircraft are not to be flown across the aerodrome at a height of less than 2,000 feet unless they are landing or taking off.”

  Jack was flying at 1,000 feet. He wasn’t too comfortable heading up higher, but he knew the rules. He nosed up as he headed east. “Any aircraft at a height of less than 6,000 feet will make a ­left-­hand circuit when in the vicinity of the aerodrome.” Jack turned north a mile or so beyond the airport and headed down at a proper angle and slowing speed. He gritted his teeth and reminded himself to ­breathe.

  “What’s up?” a weak voice came through the Gosport. “Who the heck is flying this plane?”

  Jack glanced back into Basil’s pasty face. Dried blood spattered his forehead and a thin stream of fresh blood ran down his ­cheek.

  Suddenly Jack’s hands shook like aspen leaves and his heart raced. “Basil, are you all right?”

  “Not very likely. What happened?”

  “You were attacked by a goose. Your engine gave out. Wes and I saw you come down. I pulled most of the goose parts out of the works.” Jack gulped. Maybe Basil could land the plane. “I’m not very good at landing.”

  “I’m feeling pretty crook.”

  Jack turned and looked back. Basil’s head had dropped to the side again. He was out ­cold.

  His hopes dashed, Jack steeled himself to land the ­plane.

  He levelled the Tiger Moth and approached the runway. He bounced and the plane lifted
off again. He throttled down, holding the wings as level as he could. His angle of descent was fine. His speed was on target. It was as if the page on landing the plane was inscribed inside his skull. Jack focused his mind. He had no time for any thoughts other than following the procedures for landing a training plane. Moments later the plane was taxiing straight at the hangar, toward two parked Tiger Moths. Jack stopped breathing. He put both feet on the toe brakes and willed the small plane to stop without running into anything. A maintenance truck and a tractor sat to the left. Two Ansons sat to the ­right.

  At the last moment the Tiger Moth stopped, its nose nearly touching the parked ­planes.

  Jack pulled back the canopy, hauled himself out and dropped to the ground. The station ambulance pulled up and a doctor and nurse leapt out. “Are you all right?” the nurse asked Jack. “Boyle phoned to tell us there was a plane down.” Jack nodded and shook himself all over. The doctor and ground crew loaded Basil into the ­ambulance.

  Harold and a couple of the other maintenance men came striding out to the plane. “Who in heck landed that plane?” Harold shouted. “He nearly caused an accident.”

  “Sorry about that!” Jack nearly collapsed when he tried to walk. He was bathed in a cold sweat. Harold and Angus helped him into the hangar. Buddy came bounding over from his favourite spot by the fence where Basil usually parked ­him.

  Angus settled Jack in a chair, offered him water. “You flew the plane,” he said with amazement. “A lousy landing though, lad.” Buddy curled at Jack’s ­feet.

  “But he landed the dang thing!” said Harold. “What’s the story?”

  Jack sipped water and told them everything, first about his flight today, and then about his lessons with Sandy and ­Trevor.

  “You’re a sly one, aren’t you, Jackie boy?” said ­Harold.

  A few minutes later Wes came strolling into the hangar. “I phoned Dad from the nearest farm. He came and got me. I had to check that you were all right.”

  Buddy leapt up on Wes, nearly dumping him over. Someone needed to train this dog to behave better. He was getting too strong for his own good and the good of those who tangled with him. He smelled bad, too. He needed a bath. So did ­Jack.